It's Just Life
by Jassperr
Summary: Life can be hard sometimes. Impossible even. And Arthur must learn that sometimes you need help. (Altered) FACE Family dynamic. FrUK. Some fluff. M for adult themes, language and maybe sexual content. Other character appearances. Mental illness. Human AU.
1. Chapter 1

"You've started biting your lip again," Francis remarked, noticing the blood-stained cigarette butts by the front door.

"Not that I ever stopped," came the matter of fact reply from Arthur.

Francis looked back at his partner from the end of the driveway while he locked the front door. "You really should stop, you know. They are terrible to kiss."

A derisive snort came from the turned back of the other as he pushed down on the handle several times to make sure it was secured. "Thank you for your concern," he uttered.

When he had walked the few steps from their house to the pavement to stand beside the Frenchman, Francis reached out and took his chin in his hand, tilting the pale face so as to see it's red and chapped lips. Swatting the hand away, Arthur frowned and moved on down the road in his usual, brisk pace.

"They look sore," the taller man came to walk beside him, rifling through his coat pockets, "I have some lip balm, if you would like."

Huffing, Arthur rolled his eyes, "My lips are fine, stop being like that."

"Fine," Francis noted the particularly shirt mood his boyfriend was in that day. That was sure to be fun with what they had planned.

The two walked in silence for some time. October had crept in that year, carrying it's wintery chill unnoticed. Summer seemed so recent, however, there were no more of those long, sunny days in the near future, as evidenced by the decaying pile of soggy leaves that had collected in the gutter. Not that the past summer was something to be especially longed for. Both men had stuck to the regular routine, Francis being notably busier with the opportune weather, and besides a few barbeques, there was nothing to break up the monotony.

After a while, the lack of conversation grew stale and Francis cleared his throat to gain the other's attention.

"So," he ventured, "any idea what the boys are doing for Christmas this year?"

Glancing over briefly, the lighter blond chewed on the inside of his cheek then turned his focus back to the grey walkway in front of them. "Just ask them when we get there," he responded, quite stiffly.

Whatever the reason for this hostility was, Francis wasn't about to start an argument over it on the first night out they'd had in weeks.

"I just thought you might know," he muttered defensively, giving up on the idea of an interesting discussion.

Thankfully, the university accommodation that Alfred and Matthew had been given was only a few streets away, within walking distance. The pair hadn't wished to stray too far from home, both landing a place at the local institute, but had still wanted somewhere of their own. Now in their second year, they had moved from the halls to off campus housing, which was closer. Not that it felt like it these days.

Nearing the apartment block, it became clear they were not the only ones hosting that night, as was expected, since where there are students there are noise complaints waiting to happen. Their building was a regular tower block and the twins lived on the tenth floor. Arthur had advised against taking the apartment, saying blocks like that were unsafe, but no one had listened, especially once they had seen the price.

On reaching the front entrance, Arthur studied at the intercom panel, finding the corresponding flat number and pressing it down. He did so several times before it was answered by a voice he recognised but was definitely not one of his brothers.

"Gute nacht, reigning beer pong champion speaking!" yelled the German accent over the sound of blaring music.

A loathsome sigh escaped the Englishman as he pinched the bridge of his nose. They weren't even inside yet and he could feel a migraine coming on.

"How do you always manage to get invited to these things?" he asked in a tiresome tone.

"Because I'm uncle Gilbert!" the clearly intoxicated man on the other end of the line exclaimed.

"They never called you that, you bloody-" Arthur stopped himself from snapping, taking a calming breath before continuing, "Can you please just buzz us in?"

The double doors to their left clicked open and Francis held one to let them both in.

"Thank you," Arthur begrudged and hung up.

With no lift, the couple were forced to walk up an unreasonable number of stairs, causing them both flashbacks of helping the boys move in. Silent all the way, they finally reached the right floor, music audible from down the hall. Rolling his eyes, Arthur lead the way to the door; he thought Alfred had said this was going to be a small thing.

"Looks like fun, non?" Francis remarked the opposite of what his partner thought.

The other only made a vaguely annoyed grunt and knocked on the door which was answered, immediately, by the same man they had previously spoken to.

"Evening, sour puss," he teased when he saw them, "why so mad?"

A sharp, heavily browed glare was sent his way in reply.

Stepping over the threshold, Arthur continued to glower as he sniffed the cup in the other's hand, recognising the stench immediately.

"Jagerbombs? Really?" he questioned, unimpressed.

"It's a party, isn't it?" Gilbert retorted with his signature cackle.

Another exhale and a biting tone were directed at him as Arthur pushed past the drunken man, sniping, "You're twenty-six, Gilbert. Twenty-six."

Francis came inside, closing the door behind him, as his friend raised his eyebrows at the last comment.

"Jeez, who pissed in his tea?" he dug, nudging his friend in the ribs.

Letting out a fake laugh to please him, Francis gazed after the receding form of his partner. "I do not know what his problem is," he admitted, truthfully, "he is just in a bad mood, I suppose."

"Isn't he always?" the German mumbled into his cup, drinking with a grimace.

Sad eyes fixed on the room that Arthur had now disappeared into, Francis gave a forlorn sigh. "Seems like it," he breathed.

While his friend gazed off into the crowd, Gilbert scoffed and took him by the arm.

"Good God, you can be a downer sometimes," he reprimanded, dragging the man into the cramped apartment, "I think a drink will fix that."

Sidling past inebriated teenagers, Arthur made a bee line for the kitchen, knowing it was where Alfred liked to loiter during these kinds of events. He made his way into the tiny space only to find it deserted. Although he had not found what he was looking for, he was glad to be somewhere slightly more secluded from the noise. He reclined against the counter, crumpled cups clattering as he pushed them away, and took out his phone to check for any new messages, finding two emails from work and a text informing him he had gone over his data allowance for the month.

"Shit," he swore under his breath and put the device away to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

Placing one into his mouth, he opened the window with a creak and leaned out slightly to light it, when a voice, barely detectable above the background noise, spoke up.

"I thought you said you quit."

The gentle tone just about caught Arthur's attention and he turned around to face his brother.

"I did say that, didn't I," he conceded, somewhat guilty at seeing the disapproving look on the younger man's face, "sorry."

Matthew shrugged, "I'm not telling you what to do but it's for your own good."

Taking the cigarette from his lips and placing it back in the carton, Arthur gave him a warm, if weary, smile. "You worry too much, Matt," he tutted in a parental fashion.

The soft-spoken man laughed quietly. "I live with Alfred, I have to," he joked.

"I know the feeling, believe me," the other laughed along with him, "speaking of your brother, where is he?"

Coming into the room, the bespectacled boy hopped up onto the counter opposite his former guardian, the tips of his toes still able to reach the floor.

"Beer run," he replied, "said he'd be about twenty minutes."

Arthur nodded and fiddled with the lighter in his pocket through the material of his jacket. He looked over at the other, noticing he was rather sober for a party host.

"You're not drinking?"

"Oh, no, not tonight," he shook his head, "I've got school tomorrow."

"On a Sunday?" Arthur frowned lightly in confusion.

Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, Matthew pulled his legs up to cross them as he shuffled back on the counter surface. "Well it's just a study group but my tutor's going to be there and I want to make the most of it before it's all independent projects, y'know?"

Silently impressed by the boy's attitude, the older man nodded in approval.

"That's very mature of you, Matthew," he complimented, "let's just hope some of that rubs off on Alfred."

"I wouldn't worry about him, Artie, you know that he loves what he does," Matthew reassured.

A deep breath flowed from the Englishman, as though he tried to expel the gnawing concern that ate at him every day.

"He needs to start taking it more seriously if he ever wants to play professionally, though," he cautioned as he ran a hand through his habitually unkempt hair.

For a second, an expression that Arthur didn't quite recognise flashed across the face of the other, a slight twitch of the lips, before he spoke in a hesitant way. "I don't know, he's been training pretty hard. He really wants to do well this year."

He was hiding something, Artur could tell just by looking, but, knowing that if he was covering for his brother there was no way he would rat, he didn't draw attention to it. He would just have to ask Alfred when he got there.

"How are classes going?" he changed the subject.

"Just the usual. Took some adjusting, but it's pretty much the same as last year," Matthew spoke dismissively, like it wasn't worth mentioning, but it was just the way he was, never as expressive as his brother. It made it easier to have a normal conversation with him, at least.

Nodding along with the exchange, the crashing of a door being flung against the wall followed by enthused cheers from the crowd informed Arthur of the arrival of the other twin.

"Guess he's back," Matthew stated redundantly, then added, "I'm going to go find Francis. I wanted to talk to him about something."

"Alright, he's with Gilbert, I think," Arthur replied, not noting his eagerness to get away.

The taller of the two slid from the counter and exited the room with a smile to the other, who returned it as best he could. Left alone in the kitchen, Arthur reached for the carton in his inner pocket but decided against it, he didn't want to get the boys in trouble for smoking inside the building.

From around the doorway came an easily recognisable laugh, shortly followed by the boy who owned it as Alfred bounded into the room with a crate of beer under each arm. On seeing Arthur, he stopped and beamed, setting the boxes down and coming over with his arms extended.

"Artie!" he exclaimed, throwing himself over the smaller man, half crushing him by accident.

"It's good to see you too," Arthur chuckled, instantly smelling the alcohol on his clothes, as he hugged back, less violently.

The blue-eyed teen stepped back, still grinning from ear to ear. "Ah, man, I'm so glad you made it! Thought you were going to bale on me."

"Well, I'm not staying for long. Francis and I have work tomorrow," he warned the other before he got too excited.

"That's lame, dude. Can't you just call in sick and have some fun?" Alfred pleaded but Arthur was immune to his puppy dog look.

"I made a commitment and commitments should be honoured," the older man lectured, giving the other a pointed stare.

"Alright, alright, I get it," he relented, "I'm happy you showed, though."

Cracking open the cardboard packaging, Alfred pulled out a beer, snapping off the cap on the side of the countertop, an action that Arthur winced at but didn't scold him for.

"Want one?" the host offered. The other began to open his mouth to decline it but Alfred got out a second anyway, opening it for him. "One won't hurt," he urged and handed the bottle over.

It wasn't his drink of choice, but Arthur took a sip nonetheless, pulling a face as the bitter liquid ran down his throat, bubbles stinging his tonsils. "So, how's school?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

"It's going good," Alfred began, his gaze flicking away, one hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck, "actually there's something I have to tell you."

The nervous behaviour he was displaying caught the older brother's attention and he knitted his brow, listening intently. "Yes?" he asked, the first inklings of worry forming in his stomach.

"Yeah," he mirrored, "it's about football."

"Nothing bad, I hope," Arthur pre-empted.

"No, no, it's actually something pretty cool," Alfred assured with a sheepish smile.

He paused, seemingly anxious about what he was to say next, and Arthur waited for him to continue, prompting him with his silence.

"Well," he began, looking anywhere but Arthur, "the other day coach said-"

The sentence ended abruptly when the younger man's name was called by someone in the living room, his head snapping round at the distraction.

"What were you saying, Alfred?" Arthur pressed, however, he was far too keen to take the opportunity to delay whatever it was he was trying to communicate.

"Don't worry, it's not important. Let me just go see what they want," he blurted, dashing from the room without a second thought.

"Wait, Alfred!" Arthur called after him but his voice was absorbed by a wall of bodies.

Leaning back with a dejected sigh, the Englishman took a swig of beer, not enjoying his second taste any more than the first but still proceeding with a third. The view from the window was bland and dark, only the lights of the block next to them and the street lamps below visible by the night. He balanced the bottle on the window sill and gazed out at the expanse of drab city, his forehead rested against the cool surface of the glass. A pounding in the back of his skull made itself known, something that he had come to expect by his point.

"Ah, shit!" Alfred burst back into the room, an expression of almost panic on his face, "Shit, shit, shit."

Arthur looked round with concern at the excessive cursing, "What's wrong?"

Flustered, the other ran a hand through his hair. "Natalia's here," he filled in as he paced the short length of the room.

Arthur shot a disapproving look his way, folding his arms, at his wit's end with the familiar conversation.

"Not this again, Alfred. I thought you two were over for good this time!" he chastised, not willing to encourage their on again off again relationship for the thousandth time.

"I didn't mean to!" the other defended himself, "I must have accidentally invited her when I hit send to all on the invitation."

Shaking his head at the younger boy's carelessness, Arthur tried to think of a solution. "Well, you'll just have to go and apologise to her. Explain you didn't mean anything by it."

"I can't do that!" he screeched, "She hates my guts, man, and I'll only say something stupid."

"You can't lead the poor girl on, you've messed each other around enough. You have to make it clear that it's finished. For good."

Green eyes stared down blue, impressive eyebrows being used to their full advantage, furrowed into a scowl, until the taller man relented.

"Okay, fine, I'll go talk to her," he murmured with a petulant pout.

"It's the adult thing to do, Al," Arthur encouraged him as he left the room.

"Whatever," he heard grumbled under the other's breath in a tone he did not appreciate but he let it slide.

Out in the living room, Matthew approached Francis, who sat with his second glass of wine as he chatted with Gilbert. The Frenchman smiled brightly on seeing the other, the drink having appeased his earlier sombre mood.

"Mattieu!" he delighted, "How are you, mon feuille d'érable?"

"I'm alright," the quiet boy raised his voice to be heard above the music as he sat in the space Francis moved over to give him.

"Great party, kid," Gilbert leaned over his friend to congratulate.

"Thanks, Gil, but it's not my party, it's Al's," Matthew deflected the praise.

"As you mention him," Francis cut in, "has he told Arthur yet?"

Pausing, Matthew took off his glasses to clean the lenses with his hoodie before replacing them again. "He went in to talk to him but I don't know, you know how he is."

They fell quiet for a moment, watching the party play out around them, before it was the youngest of them who spoke.

"Hey Francis?"

Looking over at the questioning intonation directed at him, Francis instantly detected a look of unease in his deep blue eyes.

"Is Arthur okay?" he asked with a hint of apprehension in his tone.

Francis tilted his head with a light frown creasing his forehead. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Another silence as Matthew thought of how to word what he would say next, then he said, quite simply, "He looks tired."

"He has been working a lot recently," Francis replied, not thinking much of it.

"I know he has but…" the other trailed off, biting his lip.

Sensing there was deeper worry there than he let on, the older man moved in closer.

"What are you so worried for, cherie?" he inquired softly, placing a hand on the boy's knee, "Has he said something?"

"No, nothing like that," Matthew stopped again, still not sure how to put it.

Surprisingly, Gilbert stepped in to help. "He does seem angrier than usual," he proposed.

They both looked at Francis to see his reaction as he sat, mulling the information over before speaking.

"I suppose he is a little short tempered but it has been a stressful week for him," he rationalised, however, Matthew still didn't seem convinced. "I promise I will keep an eye on him and make sure he gets some rest," he assured the younger man, "do not fret."

With a nod and a grateful smile, Matthew stood from his seat, "Thank you."

"You know I will look after him," the man whom Matthew saw as a second older brother guaranteed.

"I know," he affirmed, "I'm going to go sort out some notes for tomorrow. Have a good night, guys."

The exceedingly drunk German laughed, raising his cup and flinging an arm around Francis' shoulder. "We sure will, buddy!" he hollered as Matthew departed.

Somewhat sobered by what Matthew had said, Francis went quiet, staring down into his cup as he thought about the way Arthur had been behaving recently. It was true he was acting differently, his foul temper, how quiet he was, but he didn't know what to do about it.

"Gilbert," he looked over at his friend for help, "do you think something is the matter?"

"Yeah, I do!" the other cried, eyes wide, "Your glass is empty!" Proceeding to fill it to the brim, the albino man tapped his own glass against Francis, "Down the hatch!" he chanted to the amusement of those around him who cheered as he finished his drink in one go.

More and more people began to arrive, spilling over from the main room to the kitchen where Arthur still stood, enjoying the relative peace. He checked his phone again, seeing if he had stayed an acceptable amount of time before leaving but, to his dismay, only an hour had crawled by, not even ten yet. Swilling the last dregs of his beer in the bottom of the glass he watched a fraction of the party through the door. A part of him ached as he saw his past play out in real time.

Alfred had never come back and, fixated on whatever he had been trying to say, Arthur decided it was time to venture from his safe hold to try and find him. Binning his bottle on the way out, he left the kitchen to merge with the crush of people packed into the small room outside, squeezing past their sweaty, swaying bodies to the corner he could hear Alfred's brash voice echoing from. He always had to be the loudest in the room.

"Alfred!" Arthur raised his voice, still muffled by fifty others, "Alfred!"

Eventually, the other heard his shouts, two eyes like a summer sky looking over from the group he entertained.

"Oh hey!" he shouted back, "Sorry, I got caught up in something."

"What were you saying before?" the older man asked, anxious.

Waving a hand casually, Alfred smiled at something one of his friends said before replying, "It's not important, I'll tell you tomorrow."

Rather irritated but too exhausted to persist, Arthur gave up. "Did you speak to Natalia?"

At the mention of the girl's name, the group of boys surrounding Alfred snickered, giving him odd glances like something had happened.

"I tried, man, but it wasn't pretty," the American shook his head, sipping his beer, "she's drunk as shit."

"Well did you make everything clear?" the other nagged.

Rolling his eyes at his brother, Alfred gave an antagonizing tut. "I don't know, she yelled at me and ran off to one of the bedrooms. Just let me deal with it later!"

"For fuck sake, Al!" that headache was really coming on now, "I didn't teach you to disrespect people like that, be a bit more considerate!"

He was ignored, as the other simply made an irritated expression, having not listened to anything he had said. Anger only making things worse for him, Arthur turned and walked in the opposite direction, hearing laughs, most likely at his expense, coming from behind his back. There was a bathroom down the hall, which is where he headed, hoping to lie low for ten minutes before going home.

The bathroom door was open a crack when he reached it and no noise was coming from inside, not that he could hear over the damn racket from rest of the apartment, so he slipped in, quickly closing the door behind him. Relaxing against the wall, thinking he was alone, a shuffling sound from behind caused him to turn and see the crumpled heap of a human on the floor, hunched over the toilet and retching.

At the click of the latch, Natalia's head shot up, violet eyes bloodshot, in bleary surprise.

"Arthur?" she questioned, seemingly unable to process the fact that he was there.

"Oh lord, I'm so sorry," the other stuttered, scrabbling for the handle. He wasn't dealing with this. This was Alfred's fault and he was going to be a responsible adult and solve the problem he had created for himself. He wasn't obligated to do anything.

His hand gripped the metal knob and he began to let himself out. "Please forgive me, I didn't mean to barge in like that," he apologised again, eager to escape the awkward situation.

"Why does he hate me?"

Arthur glanced back at the sound of the girl's slurred lament.

"Pardon?"

"Why does he keep doing this to me?" Natalia sat slumped against the wall, head lolling from side to side like her neck couldn't support it. Tears ran down her cheeks, staining them black with eyeliner, as she blinked, lazily. She opened her mouth to speak again but gagged instead, lunging back over the bowl just in time. The poor girl.

Sighing sympathetically, Arthur watched the pitiful scene. Second hand guilt weighed inside of him and he accepted that this was his problem now.

"I don't know, pet," he muttered, kneeling beside her, "it must have been an accident."

"He hates me," she continued to wail between dry heaves, "Why does he hate me?"

There was a plash as she churned up pure liquid coloured with bile, her pale hands clutching the seat for support. Completely unfazed, Arthur held back her snow-white hair with one hand and used the other to rub her back in soothing circles.

"Get it all up," he murmured, well-practiced in caring for drunks.

A few minutes passed and her choking turned into uncontrolled sobs, her whole body shaking with them. Although Arthur had never really spoken to her, he had always regarded her as a nice, albeit stern, young woman and he couldn't help but side with her against Alfred in this situation. Raising her face from the porcelain bowl, a string of spit hanging from her lip, she continued to snivel, too numbed to care what a mess she was.

Arthur stood, his knees clicking back into place, and grabbed a discarded cup from the side of the bath. Spilling out its fluorescent contents he washed it and filled it with water.

"Wait here, I'll be right back," he handed the cup to Natalia who nodded weakly.

Leaving the room, he closed the door behind him and went to find Francis. There was no way he could let her attempt to get home by herself, he would never forgive himself if something were to happen to her. More importantly, Ivan would never forgive Alfred.

He found the man he was looking for, along with his fifth glass of wine, and called above the music to gain his attention.

"Mon cher, there you are! We were just talking about you," he drawled and smiled brightly.

"For the love of God, Francis, you said you weren't drinking!" Arthur immediately berated, past the limit of how much shit he was able to take.

From the side, Gilbert piped up, barely able to form a coherent sentence. "Oh, lighten up, eyebrows! We're just enjoying ourselves!"

"You can shut up!" the other snapped, "And you have work tomorrow," he added, glaring at his partner.

"I can call in sick, it is no big deal," Francis shrugged off, sipping his drink, ignorant of how much trouble he was in.

Shaking his head in utter exasperation, Arthur let out a sharp breath. "Fine, do what you like," he surrendered, tone defeated, "I only came to tell you that I'm taking Natalia home."

A moment of confusion passed the other's face, apparently unaware of the drama, before he shook it off. "Are you coming back after?"

"No, you pillock," Arthur bit, "I'm going home. To bed. I don't care if you do the same or not."

"Alright, mon dieu, there is no need for that," Francis recoiled after the outburst.

With a huff, the irate Englishman stormed back to the bathroom, ordering a cab on the way. He came back to a barely conscious Natalia, hair matted over her face with sweat and vomit, sprawled across the floor. There was no way he could carry her, and so leant down to rouse her, pulling her into a seated position by the wrists.

"Come on, I'm taking you home," he said more to himself than her.

"Alfred?" she groaned, half delirious.

"It's just me, sorry," he replied, lifting her to stand, wobbling precariously.

"Good," she spat, "I don't ever want to see that asshole again."

He could hardly blame her for how she must have been feeling, rather frustrated at the boy himself. Holding her around the waist, keeping up the majority of her weight, Arthur ushered the incapacitated girl into the living room. They gained some odd looks but no one payed them much attention as it wasn't exactly out of the ordinary for a college party. Alfred was busy with whatever had caught his fleeting interest and, therefore, with minimal hassle, they made it out of the apartment into the freezing hallway.

By the time they found themselves standing outside the tower block, Arthur having practically carried her down twenty flights of stairs, the cab was waiting for them, impatiently. Helping Natalia into one side, Arthur went around to the other, sliding into his seat.

"I'm charging you for the time you made me wait," a gruff voice came from the driver's compartment.

"Sure, whatever," the other answered, just wanting to get home.

They began to drive the short distance from one side of their small town to the other, Arthur just praying that Natalia had expelled everything back at the party. Looking over worriedly, he noticed the thin woman was shivering as she wore only a tight black dress and heels. She had obviously dressed up in hopes of one upping Alfred and, even with vomit down the front of her, she was still rather fetching.

Afraid she would catch pneumonia, the older man removed his jacket and draped it over her exposed shoulders, smiling, a little uncomfortable, when she glanced up hazily.

"Why are you being so nice to me when you are Alfred's brother?" she faltered, voice cracking.

Arthur gave her a piteous look, adjusting the jacket around her delicate frame. "Between you and me," he mused, "he can be a bit of a wanker sometimes."

He smiled at her again, comfortingly this time. Her glassy, aubergine eyes flicked between his as she began to lean in, lips first, in an attempted kiss. Although caught off guard, Arthur reacted calmly, halting her with a hand on her shoulder.

"You're very lovely, my dear, but no," he stated, gently.

She sat back again, clearly too drunk to feel embarrassment, and rested her face against the window, eyelids dropping closed every few seconds. The Englishman watched the world pass his window on the other side, bushes breezing by in a green blur.

Thankfully, the journey was short as they pulled up outside the Braginski residence after ten or so minutes. After paying the ludicrous price, Arthur decided he would walk the rest of the way home and, once they had both exited the vehicle, the driver took off around the corner.

As they approached the door, Arthur prayed it wasn't Natalia's older, extremely protective, brother who answered as he didn't know how he could cover for Alfred this time. The whole situation did look a little dodgy. Quickly ringing the doorbell once, afraid of waking the neighbours, he adjusted his grip on the younger woman and waited for a response.

Before long, a light was flipped on in the hallway and then was darkened by the shadow of someone approaching. The door opened to reveal Natalia's far less threatening, but no less protective, sister, who's worried eyes instantly fell on her.

"Natalia, what have you done to yourself?" she cried, pulling her sibling into the doorway.

Natalia mumbled something unintelligible at which Katyusha began to speak rapidly in her mother tongue, scolding. Unsure of what to do, Arthur contemplated just leaving them to it as he stood, awkwardly, waiting to be noticed.

Her voice raised, the older woman pointed a finger at the stairs inside with a stern expression. Natalia made an exaggerated snort and went in, stumbling up the stairs where a slamming door was heard. Watching her go, Katyusha turned to Arthur, clearly embarrassed, as she shook her head at the girl's antics.

"Arthur, I cannot apologise enough. I am so sorry, you did not have to do that for her, I am very grateful," she rushed, relief in her voice.

"It's no problem, really, I couldn't have left her in good conscience," Arthur humbly denied.

Pulling her dressing gown tighter around herself as the cold night creeped into the hall, the Ukrainian woman folded her arms, her lips tight in a disparaging smile.

"I do not know what I will do with that girl," she stressed, "I told her not to go but she would not listen."

"Let her make her mistakes while she's young," Arthur smiled, able to empathise, having been on both sides of the situation, himself, "I know I did."

"She should know better," the other criticised, although there was a hint of self-reflection in her words. "I know it is late, but would you care for some tea? It is the least I can do to thank you," she continued to stammer but Arthur declined with a shake of his head.

"No, thank you Katya, I have to get going."

"I could call you a car?" she persisted, guilty and wanting to make it up to him.

Again, Arthur rejected her offer, "It's fine, I'm only a few streets away. Have a good night."

"You too, Arthur. I am indebted to you," she smiled warmly and gave a quick wave, still clutching her gown against herself with one arm.

Waving back, the other began to walk down the street, watching the small square of light on the ground disappear as Katyusha went to care for her sister. Arthur picked up his pace, raising a hand to where his cigarettes should have been in his pocket but realised that they were in the jacket that he had forgotten to take back from Natalia. He thought about going back to get it but felt it would have been rude to disturb them. There was nothing of importance in there, anyway, and he had told Matthew he would quit.

Frigid air stung his cheeks while he walked, bringing the blood in them to the surface. The clacking of his hard-souled shoes echoed through the empty street, bouncing off the sides of concrete buildings, surrounding him. There was a damp infused throughout the atmosphere, making everything colder than it was, and Arthur could feel the moisture clinging to his shirt.

The feeling of being completely alone in the middle of a city was something he never failed to find eerie, yet oddly tranquil. All signs of life having retired to their homes while he still roamed, as though in a suspended state, separated from them. From humanity. Where some may have been afraid, Arthur slowed his stride to savour the feeling before he, too, would have to conform.

Breathing a little easier, he turned the final corner to reach his road of residence. Nineteen white doors down from the direction he walked in and then a twentieth where he reached for his keys. His heart sunk as the same realisation as before struck, his hand reaching for a pocket that wasn't there. A perfect way to end the night.

Dropping down with a soft thud, Arthur sat on the doorstep, locked out. He could have gone back to retrieve his jacket, and should have really, but the exhaustion had caught up with him. Five full days of work, a meeting at eight that same morning and another tomorrow. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how he was managing it and feared he wouldn't be able to for much longer. However, at the same time, he knew he would. He didn't have a choice.

Now relying on Francis, Arthur pulled out his phone and called him. As expected, the device rang out, going to voicemail as he was ignored. With a hushed curse, Arthur hung up the call, texting instead and resigning himself to the fact it could be a long, cold night. Staring down as the screen faded to black, he locked eyes with a foreign man who mimicked his actions. The vacant look he held was unnerving. Sickened by the insipid expression, Arthur moved to put the phone away, once more forgetting he no longer had a breast pocket, and jolted, too late, as the device slipped from his fingers and fell, face down, on the drive. His breath halted in his throat, he reached down, hands half numb as he touched the chilled metal. Flipping it over, a crack split the face of the stranger in the glass, the centre of his features fragmented just an inch, slightly off. Just his luck.

A languid sensation of indifference settled upon the man in the doorway as he was beyond the point of caring. The dull pain in his head was persistent in its pounding. Allowing his body to fall back against the door, Arthur could feel his eyelids wilting, a fog descending over him. On forcing his eyes open he glanced up at just the right angle to catch the street lamps glare reflected off the mist of rain that had begun to filter downwards. Train of thought compromised by lack of sleep, the image of miniscule fairies dancing on the breeze came to the surface of his mind, like his mother had told him about on days like this. It would have been her birthday soon. He would have to remind the boys.

Head tilted back, arms hugging themselves to keep the cold from permeating, Arthur found himself much more comfortable than he should have been. Blinking became a chore as the soft grip of sleep pulled him closer. Although willing himself to stay awake, the ineffable temptation was too strong as he dozed off on the front step.

It was nearing midnight by the time Francis thought to check his phone, almost choking on his drink when he saw the message from Arthur.

"Fuck!" he blasphemed.

"What?" Alfred peered over at the screen, "Oh shit, man! You should go, that was sent over an hour ago."

The party still going strong, Francis had been too distracted to think of checking on Arthur, guilt flourishing at the realisation.

"He is going to kill me," the Frenchman groaned as he gathered his belongings.

"It was nice knowing you, buddy," Alfred joked rather ominously, and hugged the other with a pat on the back.

"Oui," Francis sighed, "we will see you tomorrow."

The younger man nodded, "Sure thing."

Slipping on his coat, Francis made his exit from the still bustling apartment, passing his friend on the way.

"Au revoir, Gilbert," he called to the man who lay paralytic in an arm chair by the sink. He raised a hand by way of waving as the other passed by.

Out in the hall, Francis attempted to call his partner but went straight to voicemail, becoming worried. Making it home in record time, shivering with the cold, he found the other man passed out in front of the house and rushed over to wake him. Body cool to the touch, he carefully nudged the smaller man in the shoulder, causing him to open his eyes blearily.

"Arthur, I am so sorry, please do not be angry, I did not realise you had called," he begged, fearing his lover's wrath.

"You're here now, just let me in," the other replied, tiredly.

Surprised and not quite relieved by the response, Francis grew suspicious.

"You are not angry?" he reiterated with a frown.

"No, and it's bloody freezing so open the door," Arthur shuddered, regretting letting himself fall asleep outside in the middle of autumn.

Watching the other as he stood, rubbing his arms to warm them, Francis began to see what Matthew had been talking about. There was something barely noticeable but different. He looked fragile, almost. Like the tip of a burnt-out match. Twisting the key in the lock, Francis pushed the door open and they both entered, Arthur shuffling up the stairs, wordlessly, in the dark.

Francis paused in the hallway, hanging up his coat and slipping off his shoes before proceeding inwards. By the time he reached the bedroom, Arthur was already under the covers, his clothes from that day scattered on the floor with an uncharacteristic lack of care and the curtains undrawn. Tipsily wobbling into the room, the older man collected the discarded articles, knowing the other would need them for work in the morning, and laid them out on the chair they would normally be placed on, then closed the blinds.

He stopped, momentarily, to study the pale face of his boyfriend, blurry in the darkness but still visibly stressed. The dark rings under his eyes were proof enough but, even in his sleep, his forehead held the light creases of a potential frown. Slipping into bed beside him, Francis rested an arm over the other's waist and moved in closer so their bodies pressed together.

"Mon cher, you are frozen," he spoke in a whispered tone as he brushed his knuckles lightly over the icy cheek.

Arthur was tempted to pretend he was asleep but then answered, "I'm fine."

"You will catch your death of cold," the other continued to worry over him.

"Just go to sleep, Francis," Arthur ordered, hearing the words come out harsher than he had meant them.

The few seconds silence that followed caused a pang of guilt through him as he could tell Francis had taken offence.

"Je t'aime," the Frenchman mumbled into the back of the sandy head that lay beside him, planting a soft kiss on it.

A deep breath in and a deeper one out came from the face that was turned away from him then, "You too," came the hollow reply.

Day broke with a white sky that sliced through the curtains to hit Francis in the eye. Some events from last night were a little blurry, he seemed to remember something about Natalia being mentioned and Arthur may or may not have been angry with him. Rolling over to find half of the bed empty, he longed for the second one not to be the case. Trudging down the stairs with only a mild hangover, Francis was relieved to find his partner at the kitchen table, mug of tea steaming beside him as he flicked, disinterestedly, through the pages of his book. The fatigue engrained into his features was striking and Francis couldn't help but say something.

"You do not look so good, Arthur."

"Charming," the gaunt man acknowledged his presence without looking around, focused on his reading material.

"Did you not have work?" he inquired, coming into the room and getting himself a glass of water.

"I did," the other stated bluntly, "I went. Then I came home. It's almost four, Francis."

Glancing at the clock, he saw the hour hand had almost reached the number four and pulled a displeased face as though he had been cheated out of time.

"I told your office you weren't coming in and they didn't seem to care," Arthur informed him, sipping from his favourite mug.

"The beauty of being a contractor," Francis hummed, bringing his glass to sit opposite the other.

Both men remained in their own quiet thoughts a few minutes until Francis checked his phone to find several messages from Alfred. It took a few seconds before more of last night fell into place like Lego blocks and he jumped from his seat.

"I told the boys we would see them this afternoon for dinner," he recalled aloud, reading the messages to make sure the plan was still on.

Glancing up from his book in confusion, Arthur spoke with a puzzled tone. "Why the hell did you do that?"

Running a hand through his matted hair, Francis let out a sound of vocalised regret, "I do not know, we were drunk. Alfred said he wanted to make burgers for us and he still seems keen to do it tonight. We can say we are busy if you like?"

Arthur paused and closed his book, laying it down on the table. "Actually, I would like to talk to him about last night," he spoke like he had a point to make. Francis recognised that tone and pitied anyone it was directed at.

"I said we would be there at five, let me shower and we can leave," the Frenchman put his glass in the sink and went upstairs to cleanse himself of the previous night's events, feeling much improved in a new set of clothes. He didn't know what Alfred had done and just hoped it wasn't about what it might be about.

A short time later, the two made their way from their house to the boy's apartment again, Arthur texting to say they were on their way. Over the course of the brief journey, he explained the events of the night before, leaving out the parts that involved him being pissed at Francis, and planned out the tongue lashing he was about to give his brother for his careless actions. Truth be told, he wasn't even particularly mad anymore, he didn't have the energy, but it was the principal, he had to learn.

They were buzzed up and climbed the stairs to knock on the door. A shifting came from inside then Matthew answered, flustered and pink in the cheeks.

"I'm sorry, please excuse the mess, we haven't finished tidying up yet," he apologised immediately, letting them in and closing the door behind them.

The room reeked of various spirits and bodily fluids with full bin bags littered about showing that, at least some, effort had been made to clear up the evidence.

"That's alight, we'll give you a hand later," Arthur offered, feeling compelled to help.

"Thanks, Alfred's being kind of useless," Matthew complained lightly.

Shaking his head with an irritated tut, the older man folded his arms. "He needs to get his act together."

As perceptive as ever, the blue-eyed boy caught onto the exasperated tone, noting the way it was laced with dampened frustration.

"You're mad at him?" he deduced, tilting his head as he looked back at his brother who bit his lower lip, eyes unfocused, "Did he tell you, then?"

The last part sparked Arthur's interest, causing him to peer over with a subtle frown. "Tell me what?"

From behind the Englishman's back, Francis' head snapped round, panic in his eyes. Shaking his head frantically as a signal for Matthew to shut up he repeatedly mouthed at him to stop but the younger boy wasn't looking and continued to speak.

"About going to America."

* * *

Just an opening to set the tone and sort out some character foundations. Please follow and review (I need validation) and uploads should be fairly consistent. Thanks for reading.

Also, imagine China making a dad joke and Britain laughing uncontrollably while everyone else just cringes.


	2. Chapter 2

"America?" Arthur reiterated, "What do you mean, is he visiting Linda and Paul again?"

Matthew went silent, realising what he had done and not sure how to proceed. He gripped at the overlong sleeves of his hoodie, twisting the material between his fingers, as he felt the back of his neck become hot.

"No, not exactly, I mean…" he began to stutter, failing to find a way to recover.

Flailing on his own words, his brother continued to watch him, green eyes unwavering, making the whole situation worse.

"Matthieu, where is Alfred?" Francis saved him from the social vacuum he had created, coming to stand beside the younger man.

Looking at him through grateful saphires, he adjusted his glasses. "He's in the shower," he replied.

Calmly diffusing the mounting tension, the Frenchman suggested, "I think, perhaps, we should let him explain."

"Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" an anxious Arthur cut in, demanding yet with a look of apprehension.

The other two locked eyes momentarily, communicating without words, then Matthew nodded.

"Al should be the one to explain all this, he won't be long."

"But explain what? Please, you're worrying me," Arthur sputtered, a sense of discomfort settling on him at being left out of the conspiracy.

"It's nothing bad, Arthur, it's just not our news to tell," the younger man tried to ease his mind, "why don't you guys sit, I'll go make some drinks."

Still with hesitation written on his features, Arthur relented and went to sit on the sofa, glancing over his shoulder at the other two.

"I will come and help you," Francis declared, chasing after Matthew as he headed towards the kitchen.

Squeezing past the armchair that had somehow found its way into the cramped space the night before, Matthew filled the kettle and flipped the switch, setting it to boil.

"God, that was awkward," he mumbled as he heard the inelegant entrance of the man behind him, walking into the side of the misplaced furniture with a pained hiss.

"Do not worry yourself, cherie, it will be fine," Francis reassured him as he clambered into the narrow room.

His back turned to the other, the taller man reached up to the cupboard above his head, retrieving three of the four mugs he owned. "Yeah, I know," he sighed, "coffee?"

With no reply, he glanced back to his companion, who was distracted, peering into the living room like a cat into a gold fish bowl.

"Francis?" he called gently, bringing the other from his daze.

Turning around, Francis met Matthew's gaze with concern in his own.

"You were right about him, Matthew," he murmured in a hushed tone, vaguely.

The switch on the kettle clicked down, signalling it was done, and Matthew began to fill the cups as he spoke, "What do you mean?"

"What you said last night," Francis elaborated, "you were right. He is not himself."

This gripped the full attention of the younger man and he turned his whole body to speak to him. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," the unease in the Frenchman's blue eyes said everything but he continued, "that is the problem. Last night he was locked out for hours because of me and, well, he did nothing. He was not angry."

Nodding as he thought, Matthew considered this new information before making a judgement. "That is weird."

"I am only noticing it now that you have mentioned it to me but there are little things…" Francis trailed off, again looking worriedly into the living room at his lover.

"I didn't mean to make you paranoid or anything when I said that, I just thought you should know," the younger man stirred the contents of the mugs slowly then handed one to Francis, the china warm to the touch. "I started to notice it over the summer while we stayed with you. He just seemed kind of quiet, you know? It was weird," he explained, holding his own mug close to his face, the lenses of his half-moon glasses steaming up.

Although semi distracted by his own thoughts, Francis hummed in agreement. "I do not suppose you would be able to say something to him?" he asked with a hopeful look, "You are more well equipped, after all."

"I know I study therapy, Francis, but I can't do that," Matthew shook his head, "I've barely started my second year, it would be irresponsible of me to try to council someone."

Knowing how seriously Matthew took his studies, Francis didn't press him further despite having wanted a different answer.

"Besides, shouldn't you be the one to talk to him?" the younger man added, giving him a look that, although they were not blood related, was pure Arthur.

Francis stared down into the rising steam, feeling the damp heat on his face and let out a deep breath, "He would only brush me off and say it was not important."

A wry laugh came from the other, "He does that to all of us," he pointed out.

The older man made the same kind of sad half chuckle but the expression on his face was something far more serious. Eyes becoming sympathetic behind their misty frames, Matthew picked up the third mug and made to go back to the living room.

"It's okay, Francis," he assured as he came closer to the other man, "all you have to do is talk to him."

Pulling the corners of his lips back into a tight line of a smile, the Frenchman spoke in a wistful tone, "If only it were so simple."

Whatever the other two were talking about in the kitchen they were being purposefully quiet about it, leading Arthur to the conclusion that it was probably about him. He strained to hear what they were saying but caught no mention of his name, only the clinking of spoons against china, and so gave up. Glancing down at the phone in his hand, he ran a finger along the deep crack that separated its surface, granules of shattered glass grinding against his skin, too small to cut. He had almost gotten it repaired that morning but decided against it out of a mix of apathy and laziness. Just another benign irritation to live with, no bother.

A bang and a curse in French sounded as Francis climbed back over the armchair, smacking his elbow against the doorframe and spilling hot coffee over his thigh in an uncoordinated display of movement.

"I told you to be careful," he heard Matthew tut from behind as lifted himself over the piece of furniture.

"I did hear you," the older man griped in return, holding his arm.

Following him with ease, Matthew came into the room and handed Arthur a mug of steaming tea with a smile.

"Thank you, Matt," he took the mug as his brother sat beside him.

There was a moment of quiet wherein Arthur was about to remark on the manners of his other sibling until a door was opened, spilling out the scent of wet cloth a shampoo, and Alfred, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, stepped into the hallway.

"Hey, when did you say they were getting here?" he called to his twin as he came into view from around the corner. On seeing more people than he had expected he stopped and smiled, "Oh, you're here. How you guys doing?"

"Alfred, what's all this about America?" Arthur asked bluntly.

The other man's face fell at the question, "You told him? I thought you wanted me to, I was going to, I swear," he whined in defence of himself.

"I mentioned it by accident but we left it to you to explain," Matthew informed him, a little guiltily.

Alfred snorted, "Jeez, thanks bro," he grumbled as he towelled his hair dry.

"I don't care who tells me, just tell me. Now," ordered Arthur, having had enough of the secrecy.

All eyes in the room were set on the young American, urging him to speak.

"Okay look, I was avoiding this because I don't know how you're going to react and that always scares me a bit, even when it's nothing bad, so just promise me you won't be critical?" he rushed, words tumbling from his lips in nervous succession.

"I promise," Arthur lied.

"Cool, so," Alfred mentally readied himself then began his story, "I was at practice the other weekend and coach called me over to the side to meet some guy, a talent scout all the way from America. He said our college has links with one of the best schools in Ohio and they're looking for new talent over here as part of some new foreign students' scholarship programme thing and he was really impressed with me, said I had potential that would be wasted here," his eyes, animated as always, were lit with excitement and pride as he went on in a rambling manner, "He offered me a place at try outs. They want me to fly out to America and, if they like me, I might get offered a place on their team for next year as well as a full scholarship and coach said I'm the only quarter back he's selected so it's kind of a sure thing," he ended with a shrug and a beaming grin, holding eye contact with his brother while the whole room waited for a response.

Arthur's expression remained unchanged, as though the words had not sunk in, until he opened his mouth.

"Alfred, that's wonderful," the tension was broken and relief swept over the other three men.

"You mean that?" Alfred checked.

"Of course, I'm delighted for you. Why wouldn't I be?" the older man frowned in confusion at the other's surprise.

"Well, you know, you just always said how sport isn't a reliable career and I'll be so far away and all," he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that Arthur recognised, "I thought you wouldn't want me to go."

A little shocked at this, the shorter man shook his head. "Why would I want that? It's an amazing opportunity, you have to go."

"Told you," Matthew voiced what he and Francis had been trying to convince him of all along at which the other rolled his eyes.

"Alright, fine, you were right. Happy now?"

A smug smile crept across the younger twin's face in answer to the rhetorical question.

"All is well!" sung Francis, putting an arm around Alfred's shoulder, grinning.

From across the room, green eyes, filled with anxiety, betrayed the smile on the lips below them. Doing his best to quell the brewing insecurity inside of him, Arthur said nothing more.

"Let me get dressed and I'll start on dinner," Alfred announced and bounded from the room.

They watched him go, bouncing with energized steps, without a word until his bedroom door audibly closed.

"Are you alright, cherie?" Francis addressed Arthur who held a forcefully subdued expression.

At the sympathetic lilt in his words, Arthur looked over to meet his gaze. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice a semi-tone higher than normal.

Francis recognised this immediately, along with the slightly widened eyes that meant he was lying. "Are you sure?" he asked again, firmly.

Scoffing, the Englishman rolled his eyes, his voice taking on an edge, "Yes, I am," he bit.

"Woah, who poked the bear?" Alfred chuckled as he walked past, now fully clothed.

The older two men continued to look at one another for a second, then Francis laughed, "It is getting late, I will help you in the kitchen," he offered.

"That's alright, I don't need help," Alfred moved towards the other room but Francis followed him eagerly.

"Please, for our sake," he begged, remembering the last time the younger man had tried to cook with a grimace.

The pair went together, leaving Arthur and Matthew who decided to pass the time by clearing the rest of the living room. About half an hour was spent quietly tossing crumpled red cups into bin bags as they chatted about nothing in particular, Matthew consciously avoiding the topic that had just been shared, before the smell of grilling meat drifted through. Another few minutes and Francis' head poked around the corner of the door to call them through.

"Smells lovely," Arthur commented as he was handed a plate.

"I salvaged it as best I could," Francis joked with a side glance to Alfred.

The other snorted a laugh, "Hey, it's not my fault I can't cook. We all know who I got that quality from."

An amused snort ran through the group and they went to sit in the living room, scattered over the limited seating, leaving Alfred on the floor. Eating at a leisurely pace, the mismatched family listened to Alfred enthuse about the future with a childlike glow on his lips.

"You're not mad I didn't tell you straight away, right?" he directed the question at his older brother, with an apologetic expression.

Flashing a warm smile back, Arthur shook his head. "No, it's alright. But I haven't forgotten last night."

The stern look he received reminded Alfred of the former girlfriend related incident and he let out an exasperated groan at the memory.

"It was an accident, Artie. Can't you just let it go?" he groused.

Arthur tutted, raising his eyebrows. "If that's how you want to treat a lady that's your choice but it is not the gentleman's way," a tone of judgemental superiority seeped through the scathing remark causing the younger blond to cringe.

"Come on guys, back me up here," he looked around at the others who ignored his plea.

"Sorry, Alfred, but he is right. You will never find a girlfriend by acting like that," Francis sided with his partner.

Glancing to his twin, Alfred got the same response.

"It was kind of shitty of you," he shrugged with a repentant look.

"I guess I should say sorry," Alfred reflected, "I'll text her or something."

Having heard what he wanted to hear, Arthur stood and collected the empty plates, giving his own, still half full, one to Alfred. "You're a good person," he muttered gently, ruffling the honey blond locks as he passed.

"Obviously. I'm the best," the younger man said through a mouthful of the scraps he had been gifted.

After washing up in return for the meal, the older pair didn't stay long as they all had a reason to be up early the next day. Saying goodbye at the door, Arthur was suddenly reminded of something.

"Mum's Birthday is coming up," he stated before he forgot again.

"Yeah, we were wondering what you wanted to do for it," Alfred spoke for himself and his twin, "we thought, maybe, Antonio's for dinner?"

Nodding in agreement of the plan, Francis looked at Arthur for affirmation.

"How about Friday," the Englishman thought aloud, "I know it's sort of early but things are getting a bit hectic at the office, I don't know when else I'll be free."

"No worries man, Friday is perfect," Alfred waved off his concerns, "see you then."

Plans set, the older two men descended the stairs into the dark outside. Although not late, the sun had set a while ago, as was usual for that time of year. Along the side of the street they walked down in silence were trees with leaves like fire, glowing as though they tried to make up for the miserable shadow that seemed to saturate everything. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, Francis shuddered as a chill ran up his spine and buried his chin into his turtleneck while Arthur was unaffected.

On approaching the door to their home, both men almost jumped as the shape of, what looked like, a person blocked the entrance. However, moving closer, they saw it was, in fact, the jacket that Arthur had left with Natalia the previous night, hung on the door handle with a note taped to it. Unhooking the coat, it's owner read the note. In neat, feminine writing it said, 'I apologise for the trouble I caused you, please enjoy my sister's bread as a thank you. Natalia.' Although signed with the younger woman's name, clearly it was the words of her older sister. It was something Arthur had been forced to do when he was younger and that he, in turn, had made his brothers do.

"That is so sweet of them," Francis cooed after reading the letter over the other's shoulder.

The corners of Arthur's lips tugged upward just slightly. "Restores some faith in humanity, doesn't it," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Do not be so gloomy," the other tutted, picking up a shopping bag with a loaf of homemade bread inside and letting them through into the hall.

Francis turned left to take their present into the kitchen while Arthur went to hang up the jacket, stopping when he felt the pack of cigarettes in the pocket. He had been dying for one since yesterday and so went down the hall to the back door and let himself into the garden.

Stepping into the cold air again, Arthur sat down on the concrete step and lit up straight away. The rush of nicotine through his lungs helped to clear his mind and he allowed his tired eyes to slip closed in the solitude. He rolled the switch of the lighter in one hand while the other removed the cigarette from his mouth.

America. It was quite the opportunity. Once in a lifetime even. But why did it have to be so far away?

Taking another drag, he let out a sigh, smoke carried away on the wind. Sight adjusted to the dark, Arthur gazed over the fenced in patch of shadow. The small garden stood pretty much identical to how it was when they had moved in two months ago. They had plans for what they wanted to do with it but, as was always the case, hadn't found the time and there was no point planting anything now that winter was setting in. The grass needed a good trim, though, and Arthur scheduled that into his mental calendar, not that he'd do it.

From the kitchen and down the hall came the clacking of shoes on hard flooring and Arthur could feel his partner's presence close behind him. He inhaled the putrid smoke while Francis said nothing, his body blocking the light from the hallway.

"What?" he asked, not turning around.

The lean shadow that sprawled across the lawn shrugged. "Nothing," it replied, "just wondering what the matter is."

Sitting beside the shorter man, Francis observed him in profile.

"Nothing is the matter," he insisted, as Francis had known he would.

"You do not trust him," the Frenchman correctly deduced.

Arthur couldn't deny what he said and flicked the ashes from the end of his cigarette. "He's hardly the most responsible person we know," he admitted, biting his lip.

"No, but he is the most determined," Francis vouched, "and if he wants to do well I have no doubts he will."

"That's not what I'm worried about," the younger man shook his head.

Taking on his most understanding tone, Francis cocked his head, "What then?"

Looking him in the eye, Arthur blinked, "What if something happens?"

"I am sure a lot of things will happen," the older man tried to joke but the other wasn't in the mood to make light of the situation.

"Something bad, Francis. We won't be able to bail him out if he gets in trouble, no one will. He can barely make it through a week without some kind of emergency, how does he think he's going to get on in a completely different continent with no one he knows?"

It was a valid concern, one he had thought of at first, but Francis knew Arthur always blew things out of proportion when it came to Alfred.

"I agree, he will probably be a little lost at first but he will learn. You cannot let your worry get in the way of letting him go," he persuaded, placing a soft hand on Arthur's knee.

The action was met by a harsh glare. "It won't," Arthur snapped, "nothing is standing in his way, especially not me. I told him to go, I want him to."

Francis recoiled, not expecting the sudden outburst. "Mon amour, I did not mean anything like that," he attempted to retract his last statement but his lover only huffed angrily.

"Why do you all see me as some tyrant that wants control over your lives?" he speculated, flicking away the butt of his burnt-out cigarette that hit the ground with a spark, "I was only saying I was worried, like anyone would be. I'd never hold him back."

Frowning, bemused by this irrational behaviour, the taller man leant in, "We do not think that," he began but Arthur stood sharply to scowl down.

"Stop acting like you do then," he chastised then promptly went inside.

Left watching the smouldering remains on the floor, Francis ran a hand through his hair and let his head hang forward. He held in a growl of frustration, replaying the brief conversation in his mind to try and find what he had said wrong but found nothing that warranted such a response. He gave in and went inside, locking out the cold and the dark behind him.

Upstairs, he walked in on Arthur's nightly ritual, as the younger man stood in a state of half undress, trousers and shoes placed neatly on the chair in the corner with his work bag sat beside them, rifling through the documents he had taken home that afternoon. He looked over as the other man entered but turned his attention back to the well-practiced routine quickly, like he would forget what he was doing if his concentration was broken. Sensing he shouldn't interrupt, Francis went to his side of the double bed, stripped down and slid beneath the covers.

"Do you think we should make a reservation?"

"Quelle?" Francis looked up from setting his alarm.

"For dinner on Friday," Arthur clarified, "just in case."

"It will not be that busy," the other declined the proposal.

Arthur went back to organising his bag but Francis continued to look at the smaller man, studying him. There was something bothering him that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Have you lost weight?" he came to the realisation as he caught how the bones of the other's spine moved beneath the skin when he bent down.

"I don't think so," Arthur brushed off, pulling on a tattered old t-shirt he had owned since he was sixteen. It hung from his frame like it were on a coat hanger and Francis inwardly cringed at how thin his arms looked.

"I will have to start cooking more and make you take the leftovers into work with you like Mama used to," he smiled light-heartedly.

Opening the window a crack, Arthur mumbled "If you like," then climbed into his own side and faced away from his partner.

Face close the ashen blond head, unable to help the feeling of neglect that sunk in his chest, Francis snaked an arm over the narrow waist. Not sure whether he should mention what had happened out in the garden, he chose not to.

"Good night, mon lapin," he hummed.

"Night," was the curt response.

* * *

The screeching of an alarm at six thirty was what Arthur woke to the next morning, squinting at the offending source of light and sound as he reached to switch it off so as not to wake the man beside him. Lying still in that moment for as long as he dared, before the temptation to slip away again grew too strong to resist, he let out his first sigh of the day and peeled himself from the sweet caress of the duvet. Frigid air struck his skin, sending a shudder through him, and he closed the window with a scraping sound.

Dragging his reluctant body to bathroom only a few feet away, the feeling of early morning depression set itself aside to give way to dull ache of mundanity. Cold bathroom tiles stuck to the soles of his feet as he took off his clothes to step into the shower, avoiding the sight of his exposed body in the mirror. Beautifully warm water eased the persistent soreness in his neck and back for a few minutes while he lathered his hair in Francis' overpriced, brand name shampoo. Standing under the stream, motionless, to let the bubbles rinse away, Arthur enjoyed one of the few pleasures of his day as the steam rose, swirling past the ceiling light like a poltergeist.

However, this elevation from the crushing weight of life couldn't last long. He switched off the water and wrapped a towel around his midriff as he exited the cubicle into the foggy room. Wiping the condensation from the mirror, he roughly dried his hair off with a hand towel, brushed his teeth and went back to the bedroom. Skin tingling where beads of water were collected, he dried off as fast as he could, dressing in the same trousers as the day before with a white shirt and blazer.

Giving himself a once over in the mirror, Arthur saw the reflection of his lover, still blissfully asleep, behind him. Steps light, he went over to where his sleeping face rested, mouth slightly open, hair tangled like a haystack and strewn over the pillow. Crouching so their faces were level, he brushed the golden strands from the man's face and planted a kiss on his forehead. The other didn't stir, gentle puffs of breath dusting Arthur's cheeks, and he envied him a little. He rose and checked the time at which Francis had set his alarm, changing it to go off fifteen minutes earlier, knowing full well that he would underestimate how long it took him to leave the house. Not that anyone ever seemed to care how often he was late.

Downstairs, Arthur boiled the kettle to make his morning flask of tea and retrieved the book he was currently reading, refreshing his memory of where he had left off while he waited. Tea made, he screwed on the top, picked up his keys and was out the door.

The city air was thick with smog that stuck to the inside of Arthur's nostrils like foul smelling treacle. Damp patches on the paving slabs proved it had rained at some point during the night and puddles scattered the road, putting him on edge whenever a car passed. Turning onto the main street, he watched as the little, white body of a cat sped across the road to leap onto the wall that he walked beside.

"Good morning," he greeted under his breath for fear of someone hearing.

His daily morning visitor mewed in reply, rubbing its silky head on Arthur's sleeve. A few hairs clung to the material but he didn't mind, scratching it on the black strip of fur that ran around its neck like a scarf. It didn't take much for a deep, rumbling purr to be coaxed from the affectionate creature.

"Have a nice day," Arthur smiled down and went on his way, hearing a meow of complaint as he left.

The bus stop was only around the corner and, with his routine perfected to the second after four years of practice, the bus pulled up only a moment after he arrived. Taking a seat by the window upstairs, Arthur put in his headphones, letting his playlist play quietly, and resumed reading for the half hour journey.

The office building came into view, dark and looming. A block with the occasional window.

Polished stone floor adorned the entrance foyer, slippery with the damp brought through on people's shoes. He handed out polite, tight-lipped smiles to the ladies on the front desk as he sped past on his way to the lift and heard a high-pitched giggle when he was presumed out of ear shot but forced himself to ignore it.

Stepping through the sliding metal doors on the sixth floor, Arthur turned right and went directly to his office, not interested in socialising with the few people that scattered the hallway. His office, well, cupboard really, was just as grey as everything else in the building, dark slate blinds blocking out the window behind him, rickety, graphite desk chair creaking as he sat in it. A splash of colour illuminated the room momentarily as he switched on the monitor and was greeted by a picture of himself, Alfred and Matthew on the beach nine years ago on a family holiday. However, the screen saver was gone when he logged in.

Several new sheets had appeared in the mail tray he kept on his desk, letting him know that Ludwig, his head of department, had already been round. Flicking through them he put the stack to one side to deal with later and placed the documents he had completed the day before in the tray for outgoing mail. As he sat back in the dilapidated old swivel chair, there was a light knock at the door and a mousey voice spoke.

"Good morning, Mr Kirkland. These are for you."

Arthur looked up to see one of the new interns, Erika he believed her name was, hovering just over the threshold, files clutched to her chest. Her circular, moss coloured eyes stared like a startled hare as she waited to be acknowledged.

"Oh, thank you," Arthur reached over the desk to take them from her doll-like hands, "I'll leave them for you to go through later."

Nodding quickly, the tiny woman smiled and scurried away.

With nothing else to do, Arthur started going through the pages, methodically signing and addressing each one for the interns to send off. After what felt like an eon, but turned out to be two hours, the task was completed and Arthur had another three hours to kill before his lunch break. Closing the door to indicate he was busy, he spent the rest of the morning replying to e-mails, scrolling through Facebook and trying not to fall asleep.

When one o'clock did finally occur, he wasted no time in going straight to the office cafeteria. Ordering something small and cheap, Arthur sat alone at a table by the window and pulled out his defence mechanism in the form of a paperback. He wasn't exactly enjoying the story, finding it had become quite boring towards the middle, but his stubbornness would have him finish what he started. Nonetheless, his eyeline continually drifted from the page to the street below where people bustled about their days, looking like black and white sprinkles on a rather dull cupcake. The sky remained the same stark sheet of cloud that it had been for at least a week, teasing the idea of rain. Perhaps that new folding umbrella he had bought a month ago would finally get an outing.

Leaning a shoulder against the clear pane, Arthur looked directly down from the dizzying height. His thoughts drifted, as they had been for much of that day, to Alfred. He wanted the best for his brother, absolutely, but doubts were only natural, especially when they had never lived more than two miles away from each other. He wasn't sure why the distance bothered him so much, it wasn't as though he would be forgotten about, that was absurd. Then again, Alfred did have the attention span of a hyperactive puppy and tended to only be able to focus on what was directly in front of him.

Arthur pushed the impending thoughts away, there was no use worrying himself over the hypothetical. Despite not having eaten that day, he only took a few bites of the rank pasta salad he had bought before dumping it in the bin and returning to his office. The papers he had left had been collected while he was out and so, absentmindedly, he saw to the rest of the workload for the day. Set up a meeting that catered to three different time-zones, solve the filing crisis on level four, read the new reports from the Zurich office and make a shortlist of candidates to be promoted above himself. Although not difficult work in itself, having to concentrate so hard on something so immensely tedious was enough to turn a brain to mashed potatoes.

By five, a familiar pain had flared up in his back and crept its way up to his neck, soon to reach his head. Watching as the minute hand clicked to one minute past, Arthur gave a sigh, sitting back in his seat. He rolled his shoulders and neck and switched off the monitor before leaving. Barely able to see straight after staring at that glowing box all day, he blinked hard a few times as he made his way towards the lift through the, almost empty, office. About to press the button for the ground floor, someone called from outside.

"Hold the lift, please," came the same, high-pitched voice from that morning.

Halting the doors, Arthur made the effort to smile at the younger girl as she stepped in, a little breathless from her short sprint down the hall.

"Thank you for taking those papers down to Ludwig for me," Arthur conversed out of politeness.

Erika, clearly happy that her work had been appreciated, returned his smile sweetly. "You're welcome. Mr Beilschmidt isn't in until the weekend so I took them straight down to the post room. And I made sure to change that address."

"What address?" the other asked, beginning to frown.

The petite woman looked up, her head cocked. "You changed Amsterdam to America so that's what I put on the posting address," she explained.

A moment of confusion then Arthur realised his subconscious mistake. He felt a heat through his face as a tingle of panic set in.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded, some of that stress seeping into his tone, making it harsh.

Reading the older man's expression, Erika shrunk back, her voice becoming, somehow, even more timid. "I just did what it said, I'm sorry," she stammered, intimidated.

Rising anger was quashed by guilt at the look on her face and Arthur sighed deeply, never having meant to upset the girl.

"No, it's fine, it's not your fault," he crushed down his frustrations.

They reached the ground floor and Erika hurried from the lift, afraid that Arthur would change his mind. The other bit at his inner lip nervously, those were important documents and, with Ludwig gone, he couldn't fix the situation, leaving him to await his sentence. It was unlikely he would be fired but surely, sometime soon, someone would have to notice that Arthur really had no clue of what he was doing and that probably wouldn't go down too well.

Night was descending as he journeyed home and he gave up on reading to watch the murky sunset. Through the pollution, the fading light appeared a sickly orange, the skyline jagged like ripped paper. Someone came up the stairs and Arthur glanced at them, willing them with his eyes not to sit in the free seat beside him but his mental command wasn't obeyed. He drew into himself, squeezing tighter into the wall of the bus so as not to make any contact whatsoever with the stranger, as was his introverted instinct. Forehead almost touching the glass he leant on, the cool surface fogged over with his hot breath, blocking his view. Through its translucency, the horizon could have almost been beautiful, ugly square buildings and sharp corners softened by the condensation.

Reflexively knowing the number of stops to his destination, Arthur stood with a stifled "Sorry," to the person next to him as he slid past with as little hassle as he could manage. Roads less empty this time of day, Arthur looked both ways and crossed over to walk home.

The windows were dark as he unlocked the door, meaning Francis was not yet home and he presumed he wouldn't be for some time. Arthur was used to this, however, as their schedules left them more as flatmates than lovers. Too exhausted to do anything productive, he fixed himself some dinner and ate alone at the kitchen table to the monotonous tick of the clock. Some time later, Francis arrived.

"Bonsoir, mon cher, how are you?" he greeted, sweeping into the living room where Arthur was watching the news.

"I'm alright," was the supressed reply, "how was your day?"

The other leant over the arm of the sofa and placed a soft peck on his cheek then retreated back to the hall to put down his gear.

"Very productive," he called from out of sight, "they are considering making me the head of the yearly calendar shoot."

"That's great news," Arthur attempted to enthuse.

"It would make a nice change from weddings," the photographer smiled from the doorway, "What about you?"

Gaze flitting over briefly, Arthur said the same thing he always did. "Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Just fine."

They settled in for the night, not speaking much but, at least, in one another's company. Barely awake by the time they went to bed, Arthur fell asleep instantly, dark and dreamless, while Francis lay awake, treasuring the limited time he had to feel as though they were doing more than just coexisting.

Days went unaltered, as per usual, every morning as draining as the last, each night seeming shorter and less restful. Little more than a moving lump of mass by Wednesday, Arthur was simply going through the motions, waiting for the temporary respite of the weekend. He didn't know when the constant, throbbing hollowness had set in, quite some time ago by his estimations, but he had learned to live with it. This was how things were and how they would be for the foreseeable future, he had made his peace with that.

Friday came at a snail's pace, dragging its feet through the week like thick mud, and Arthur couldn't have been more grateful when it finally arrived. A week in the office without Ludwig there to oversee had proven near catastrophic and, with any luck, things would be put right by Monday. All Arthur hoped for was that his little slip up would be solved without being attributed to him.

Arriving at his usual time, the Brit's hopes were dashed at the sight of a post it note stuck to his office door, calling a meeting that morning, unmistakeably his boss' writing. Leaving any thoughts of a pleasant day at the door, Arthur entered and stared blankly at his computer screen until the appointed time was at hand.

Meeting room C was long and as painfully bland as any other room in the building, floor length windows running along the outer wall to let in the minimal light of the overcast day. Tables ran down the centre of the room in one, continuous line with enough chairs for about twenty people. Some employees had already taken their seats, scattered without order, in small groups or alone. Taking an available chair with no one close to it, Arthur laid out the notepad and pen he had brought along to make him look invested.

It wasn't long before the man they were waiting for showed up, on time to the second as expected, and switched on the projector.

"This shouldn't take long, just a few things to cover then we can all go to lunch," he addressed the room from the head of the table.

The projection flickered then displayed the image of a graph. Clicking a remote so that several differently coloured lines, representing the previous year's profits, appeared on the graph, the German began to speak. Clearly something important, Arthur knew he should have made more of an effort to pay attention, but however hard he tried, the words sounded alien to him. A muted sense of anxiety clouded his head, filling up the gaps in his brain with fluff so that the cogs couldn't turn.

To the right of him, the frantic scrabbling of a pen as the young, Estonian man from accounting took notes, from behind, the laboured clunking of the heating system. A frigid wisp of air cut through a gap in the window seal and blew past Arthur's cheek like a ghostly caress. Pen rested lightly in his grip, he let it glide across the blank page in an uncalculated pattern, the tool twisting in his fingers. Small movements created an intricate puzzle of straight lines, almost like a spider's web.

"Now, on to the European trade circle," another click and the image changed, Ludwig, again, going over the significance of the scrambled lines.

Eyes unfocused in the direction of the presentation, Arthur let the words wash over him, blocked out by his own inability to care. Against the background drone of the German accent, he became astutely aware of a deep, internal thumping as the beating of his own heart became noticeable, stronger than usual.

"Unfortunately, we had a slight problem with the Amsterdam figures," the stern voice broke through Arthur's private solitude, "What exactly happened, Mr Kirkland?"

All faces turned to him as he was glared down by his head of department. Body heating up, he could feel the palms of his hands become clammy, mouth suddenly without moisture.

"Oh, yes, I apologise, there was a small postage issue," he struggled to maintain composure with so many eyes on him, "I may have sent them to America by mistake."

"I see," was the reaction of the taller man.

An awkward silence fell, those icy eyes dead on him. Blood pounded past his ears and the air seemed to become thinner while the moment wouldn't end.

"Their office needs that report by tonight," the usually short-tempered man calmly stated, "can you have that done?"

Swallowing thickly, the other nodded. "Yes," he croaked, startled by how his breath stuck in his throat.

"Good," Ludwig muttered, about to end the excruciating exchange but stopped as he began to turn back to the projector, curious gaze fixed, again, on Arthur. "Are you alright?" he asked, words sounding too human for such a mechanical person.

Eyes darting away from catching anyone else's, the Englishman wiped his sweating palms on his trousers under the table. Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he opened it to speak he could find no air in his lungs to do so.

"Yes," he managed, half strangled by his own throat.

"You are rather red," Ludwig remarked, blond eyebrows frowning as his full attention, along with twenty other co-workers', was focused on the smaller man.

Every eyeball was a pin in his flesh as Arthur could think of nothing to divert the scrutiny from himself. The back of his neck burned, the heat running over shoulders and chest, constricting.

"Fine. I'm fine. Sorry," he apologised out of panic, too hot to think.

Above the hammering in his head, Arthur detected the sound of someone whispering and whipped his upper body around to catch them. The man to his side jumped at the erratic action and the near distraught man looked away again, just as quickly, to realise the entire room held a myriad of bewildered expressions.

"Perhaps you would like to step outside for a few minutes," the straight faced German cut through the stifling atmosphere.

Chest too tight to draw in full breaths, Arthur nodded, shakily rising from his chair and leaving the room, daggers piercing his back as soon as it was turned.

Door firmly shut behind him, he speed-walked down the hall a short way to be sure he was out of sight of the small window through the door then stopped, leaning against the wall gasping for breath. Air moved through his lungs but it wouldn't satisfy. The pounding of his heart was all he could hear.

Hands and back pressed into the wall, Arthur's whole body felt weak. He became light headed, knees bending of their own accord, and he slid to the floor. One quivering hand clutched his chest, the other gripping his hair, he leant forward. His heart sped faster than he thought it possible, resonating through all of him with every thud, so hard it hurt. His limbs went numb. On the verge of hyperventilation, it was as though the air contained no oxygen, he was in a vacuum. Short, forced inhales and painful expulsions were all he could do to stop from suffocating to death. Mind panic stricken, there seemed no way to stop it. Perhaps he would die.

Over the sound of his own, malfunctioning body came something louder. One that, at first, Arthur believed to be a delusion but then realised was the vibration of a phone in his pocket. The sensation of it slowly reminding him of the world outside of his head, his rasping gulps began to even out, becoming slower, longer, restoring his brain function enough that he was able to process thought.

Left disoriented, Arthur relaxed, not having realised every muscle in him had been tensed, and stared into space as the tingle of pins and needles restored feeling to his extremities. A tear ran down his cheek and he wiped his eyes, which had become blurry. His overheated skin rapidly cooled, leaving it sticky with dried sweat. Running a trembling hand through his hair, Arthur let out a long, shuddering sigh, silently reassuring himself that whatever had just happened was over now.

The phone had long since stopped ringing and he pulled it out to see what he had missed. Caller ID told him that it was Francis who had been trying to contact him and a text above it from the same man asked if seven o'clock was okay for dinner. Sending a one worded reply of 'yes', Arthur could hear movement from inside the room he had come from. Not wanting any of his peers to see him in such a state, especially after the scene he had just caused, he stood, with the help of the wall, and staggered to the closest bathroom.

Dizzied by the experience, he clutched the side of the sink for support as he splashed some cool water onto his, still pinkish, face. Bloodshot eyes looked back at him from the mirror and he watched in a state of disconnect as the broken man blinked slowly. Despite his haggard appearance he couldn't muster the slightest pinch of empathy.

Wishing to avoid anyone who may have been in the meeting with him, Arthur decided to skip lunch and returned to his desk, where he stayed for the rest of the day. Time passed in an odd sort of blur, both speeding and crawling at once. Tasks that should have taken a few minutes took an hour and, if not for the buzzing of his phone against the desk, Arthur wouldn't have realised it had gone five.

Another text from Francis stating he was about to leave work. Flipping through the pages he still had to finish, Arthur chewed his inner lip. He didn't want to be late but there was still a lot to do and so he resolved to complete as much as he could in the next two hours and hope the traffic wasn't too bad on the way to the restaurant. Through the window of his door, the lights on the sixth floor went out one by one as his co-workers went home to their happy little home lives, probably helping the children with their homework, kissing their wives, petting the dog.

Still with a small mountain of paperwork, Arthur relented, shoving what he hadn't completed into his case and leaving. Head spinning a little as he walked, he went and waited at the bus stop, not sure how long he would have to wait now that his routine had been corrupted. Luckily, it didn't take long for a double decker that stopped near the high street to come by and he hopped on.

There was a certain calm to be found in the unfamiliar. Arthur only followed the same daily pattern out of necessity, it worked so why change it, not out of some fear of the new. While he may not have been a thrill seeker like Alfred or as spontaneous as Francis, he would often find himself wondering 'what if?'. The path that led where he wasn't meant to go always looked more appealing but he had responsibilities and that came first.

Staring through his reflection out the window of the empty bus, his ring tone sounded for the third time that day. He contemplated letting it go to voicemail but knew who it was calling without having to look and would feel bad for doing that and so answered it.

"Bonjour, mon cher," Francis lilted down the line.

"Hello, sorry, I'm running late," Arthur muttered, his voice drained, "you can go in and start without me if you like, I'll only be a few minutes."

From the other end, the muffled complaining of an American accent sounded, "Come on, Artie, it's freezing."

"No, it is not," shushed a similar, softer voice.

"Alright," the older man cut through the background noise, "we will see you soon."

"See you soon," the other replied and hung up.

Enjoying the rest of the way in a zoned-out daze, he let his head rest back against the rattling seat, the hum of the engine filling his head. The shopping promenade came into view, it's warm glow alluring, the streets filled with people ready to start their weekend. Vibrant store fronts began to close their shutters while neon signs buzzed on, changing with the clientele.

The closest stop was around the corner from the group's meeting point and Arthur got off there, walking to where the little restaurant was hidden. It's red and yellow front was homely to see, having been there since Arthur was just a child, and a heat, both inside and out, lifted his dreary spirits on entering.

"Finally! I'm starving," Alfred exclaimed when he saw Arthur standing in the doorway.

"It's nice to see you too," the older man retorted with characteristic sarcasm, sitting with the waiting party.

"I ordered for you," Francis told him as he leaned in for a kiss.

Awkward, Arthur remained still while the Frenchman's lips were pressed against his, chastely. "Thank you," he acknowledged the action but not the affection.

"Bad day at work?" Matthew perceived, seeing the cold interaction.

Shaking his head and putting on a smile, Arthur rebuffed his concerns, "Just a long day."

From across the table, Matthew and Francis caught gazes and the older of the two looked ready to say something but was overpowered by the other twin when the door to the kitchen swung open, much to his delight.

"Oh my God, yes!" he rejoiced at the sight of their order being brought over.

Plates piled high with authentic Spanish cuisine were placed on the table, aromatic steam rising from them, and Alfred, fork prepared, barely let the waitress pull her hand away before he started shovelling the food into his face.

"Table manners, Alfred," Arthur disparaged as bits of rice and pepper littered the table.

"I was at practice all day, I'm hungry," the younger boy continued to pack food down his throat, barely chewing, and Arthur rolled his eyes, ready to start lecturing.

"Come on, guys, this is meant to be a nice night," the quietest of them stopped him, "remember why we're here."

The poignant statement prevented the developing tiff and the atmosphere became sombre.

"I can't believe it's been six years," Alfred commented retrospectively.

Naturally, conversation turned to the woman whose anniversary they were there to commemorate. The others nodded, not quite sad but introspective.

The death of Alice Kirkland had been unexpected, her illness taking over in a matter of months, and she had left behind three young boys, Arthur only eighteen at the time and her two adoptive sons just turned thirteen. As shocking as her passing had been, the ultimate surprise came when Arthur had taken up the role of legal guardian to the children. He and Francis, together almost two years at the time, had made the decision to live together in the family home to raise the twins as best they could. Neither could say it hadn't been gruelling at times but Arthur had been willing to do anything to keep his brothers out of foster care.

"Well, you boys know that, if she were here now, she would be saying how proud she was and how much she loved you," Arthur stated a little stiffly, as he did every year, with a forced smile.

Both the younger men smiled back from across the table with a raw sentimentality that made Arthur uncomfortable.

From that point, the evening progressed pleasantly, remembering old times and conversing about their days, the oldest Kirkland letting the others do most of the talking while he picked at his food, disinterestedly. The establishment's relaxed atmosphere lent itself well, Arthur almost forgetting about the stress of the day in the familiar place. Although he could remember the restaurant opening it seemed as though there was never a time without it being there as the local custom had accepted it immediately.

Staying longer than they normally would have, the conversation began to die down and the sense that the night was coming to an end descended.

"How do you guys want to split the bill?" Alfred asked as he reached for his wallet.

"It's alright, I'm paying," Arthur refused his offer.

"But you two always pay, we can afford it you know," Matthew insisted.

"Nonsense," the older man stood to show his word was final, "I suggested it so it's only fair."

Knowing better than to argue with the stubborn Brit, the others stayed seated.

There was no one at the desk when Arthur reached it and, although there was a bell on the counter for the express purpose of gaining someone's attention, he opted to wait patiently to be noticed for fear of seeming rude.

It was several seconds before a face popped up from behind the window that looked into the kitchen, an easy-going smile on its lips.

"Arthur!" Antonio laughed at seeing the other so unexpectedly, "Wait there, amigo."

The Spaniard disappeared for a moment then came through the kitchen to the front of the restaurant, still grinning as wide as his face.

"It's been a while," Arthur gave a polite smile back, "I didn't expect to see you here so late."

"A good boss doesn't just do paperwork," Antonio wiped his hands down the grease stained apron he wore, expression never lessening. He had recently taken over the business after his parents had moved back to their home country and the look on his face told Arthur that he was happy with his decision. What he wouldn't have given to feel that way about his own job. "Dios mio, how long has it been?"

His happiness was infectious and Arthur let slip a breath of a laugh. "I don't know. A few months, I think."

"Si, si, that's right! I haven't even seen your new place yet," the other continued to ramble, "and I'm sorry to hear about all that, amigo, it's a shame."

A twinge caught Arthur off guard at the well-meant comment, the wound of losing the old family home to mortgage repayments not yet fully healed.

"It's fine, we all knew it was going to happen eventually," he played down what had, in truth, been a fairly devastating event.

"We still have to throw you a house warming party, no?" Antonio suggested.

"I don't know about that," Arthur tried to turn down the idea.

"Some time after next weekend," the excitable brunette pressed, "You are coming next Saturday, aren't you?"

The look Arthur gave him must have explained his confusion as the other elaborated.

"Gilbert finally got that promotion, we're celebrating. Everyone's invited."

Dreading the thought, the younger man began to rummage for his credit card. "I'll see if I can stop by," he made a flimsy promise he had no intention of keeping, "How much do I owe you?"

With a dismissive hand gesture, the other laughed again. "You know your money is no good here," he exclaimed, "and don't try to argue, I won't take it," he added when Arthur was about to object.

Taking some coins from his pocket, the Englishman left them on the counter. "For the waitress," he said.

"See you next weekend," Antonio scooped the money from the surface with a nod of thanks.

"Yeah," the other gave a hollow smile and went back to the table.

"Was that Toni?" Francis questioned, craning his neck to see as Arthur approached.

Readying himself to go, the younger man nodded. "He said something about Gilbert having a party, did you know about that?"

"Sorry, I meant to tell you," the Frenchman apologised, "we were talking about it before you got here."

"I can't wait, Gil always throws the best parties," Alfred grinned eagerly.

Last to know. Typical.

"I'll see if I'm busy or not," Arthur made the same non-commitment he had to Antonio, "Shall we go?"

Outside, the group went their separate ways and, alone together, the couple fell mute, as though they needed others around to find one another interesting. Strolling side by side, Francis reached out in a weak attempt to hold hands but felt Arthur pull away as their fingers brushed together. Whether he did it on purpose or not, he didn't know, but, from the way things had been going recently, he wouldn't assume it was by accident.

As much as Francis wished he could deny it, whatever was going on had started to have an effect on the couple's relationship. They barely spoke anymore, or communicated in any manner. Acts of affection were completely absent and they hadn't been intimate in quite some time. What had started out as a passing conversation had become a very real concern and Francis had no idea what to do.

Once home, the older man expected his partner to go straight up to bed and so was unsure why he went into the living room.

"What are you doing?" he enquired, following.

Arthur knelt beside the coffee table, rifling through his work bag. "I have some things to finish," he stated.

"Come now, cherie, you can do it tomorrow," the other attempted to dissuade him but Arthur stayed in place.

"I don't want anything to pile up, go to bed if you want," he said without turning around.

Slinking closer, Francis came to stand behind his lover. "But I want you to come with me," he hummed low and enticing as he slid a hand up the others back and over his shoulders in a way he knew would induce a shiver.

"I'm too busy, Francis," Arthur snapped, shooting a look back.

Retracting his hand, the Frenchman stepped away, swallowing his hurt.

"Don't be too long," he uttered and went upstairs alone.

Many things crossed Francis' mind that night, things he didn't want to consider. As he stared at the ceiling like it held the answers he was looking for, he knew that things hadn't been right for some time now. To a certain extent it was his fault, a relationship was made of more than one person after all, but he couldn't solve anything if Arthur never told him what the problem was.

Sleep alluding him, he decided to venture downstairs, hoping for some kind of insight, and found Arthur unconscious, having exhausted himself. A solicitous smile crept across the older man's face at the sight, how the downy head lay asleep on an arm he used like a pillow, pen still in hand. If he tried to rouse the younger man he would only go straight back to working, as though he had something to prove, and so, instead, Francis found a spare blanket to drape over his bony shoulders and left him to sleep.

The bed too big without the smaller body lying next to him, Francis remained awake that night, troubles multiplying with every hour.

* * *

Well that took a fucking while. Sorry about that. Thanks to everyone who read, followed and reviewed the first chapter (your feedback is still appreciated) I hope this second one was just as good.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur woke to the sound of quiet human activity and the gentle patter of rain against the window pane. Slowly peeling back his eyelids to a room he was not accustomed to waking in, he went to sit up from his crouched position but froze in place when a sharp, twinging sensation pinched the vertebrae of his neck. With a hiss, he clasped a hand over the afflicted area, holding his head at the same angle as he raised it from the coffee table that had been his bed for the night.

"Ah, good morning," a cheery Frenchman chirped from behind.

Having to turn his whole upper body to look around, Arthur lopsidedly glanced back at him. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I did not want you working all night," Francis shrugged.

"Would have been able to hold my head up straight, though," the other grumbled, twisting his neck while squinting in pain.

Coming to plant a quick peck on the thatched head, the older man showed some empathy for his actions, "Je suis desole, mon lapin. I will massage it for you later, oui?" his suggestive inflection not at all subtle.

Arthur made a vague sound of complaint in reply, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "You have work?"

"They called this morning," Francis went out to the hall and swung on his coat, "they made me head of the calendar project."

"Oh, well done," the other feebly encouraged.

"Merci," Francis thanked, "I should be home to make dinner, what would you like?"

"Surprise me," Arthur said instead of 'I don't give a shit.'

"Tres bien," the disembodied voice called as the door was opened, "See you later, amour."

"Have a nice day," the younger man muttered, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear, not that it mattered as Francis was already half way down the drive.

Left to his own company and the echo of receding footsteps, Arthur remained where he sat, adjusting to the day. Despite having slept until near noon, his whole being was heavy, his head feeling as though it were packed with cotton wool. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm to try and alleviate some of the stuffiness which only resulted in fuzzy, black dots floating before his vision. With no motivation to stand, he stayed in the awkward half sitting position a few minutes, staring at nothing in his glazed over state. Grunting as he stood, both legs painful to stretch, Arthur found himself at a loss of what to do with his freedom. The desire to be productive was there but the motivation was absent, the prospect of a day to himself not as pleasing as it should be.

Icy fingers rapped at the glass from outside, the cold seeping in through the gaps in the window seal. Falling straight down in fat globs, the rain became heavier, pelting the ground with a smack. As Arthur passed through the hall he noticed the household umbrella still leant by the door; Francis would be getting soaked.

Running on autopilot he made himself some tea, considered finding something to eat but didn't see the urgency and shuffled back to the living room where he stared down at the unfinished work he had left himself. There was quite a bit to do and, as he watched the orderly stack of sheets like they might decide to do themselves, he knew he shouldn't procrastinate. He squinted down at the jumbled scrawling of black ink, the words seeming to bleed into one another, all blurred and crumbling at the edges. As many times as he screwed his eyes shut to try and clear them, they refused to come into focus.

He eased himself onto the sofa, slouching back into its soft hold with the warm cup gripped in both hands. A buzzing static occupied his mind, unable to tell whether it was from something in the room or in his head, along with the rhythmic patter of the outside world. Switching on the T.V, he allowed whatever was on to play uninterrupted since he wasn't actually watching it, he just needed something to fill the void of white noise. An overzealous presenter harped on about some product on the screen but Arthur watched the box of wet sky instead. For a while he was able to ignore the nagging anxiety of unfinished commitments but eventually, knowing the feeling would not subside until he solved what caused it, its shadow loomed too close.

Hoping a shower may clear the fog that shrouded his thinking, and after several minutes convincing himself to do so, he placed the half-drunk tea, now stone cold, down and hauled himself from the seat. His movements lethargic, he shuffled to the staircase and ascended as though he had gained a ton in weight overnight. Body aching, every movement was a chore, his limbs creaking like the boards beneath his feet.

Once enclosed in the glass cube, Arthur wished he never had to leave, the steaming water a blessing to his strained muscles. For a long time, he remained motionless, allowing the stream to wash over him, hitting his neck and flowing downward across the whole of his body like the centrepiece of a Roman fountain. His hair, waterlogged and heavy, was glued to his skin, fringe plastered to his forehead. Running a hand over his head to sweep the sodden mop from his eyes, he let the water run over his face, getting into his mouth, dripping from the end of his nose. A whirlpool had begun to form around the drain and he watched as each droplet fell and rippled, indistinguishable from one another.

As though beaten down by the light dribble of the shower, Arthur couldn't resist the insurmountable urge to sit on the porcelain floor. Knees held against his chest, curled into a ball against the tiled wall, the overwhelming numbness was all consuming. It was almost as though he were not in his body, looking down upon himself and still controlling his actions yet disconnected from what was around him. An impossible feeling to define and one that he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The sensation of temporary heat was addictive and he dreaded to leave, but when he noticed his hands wrinkled, saturated with water, he forced himself to do so. Without washing, he spilled from the shower, apple cheeked, and went to find something to wear. The contents of his wardrobe were a depressing scale of black, white and brown in varying shades, a brief splash of green the only exception. As he dressed mostly for work, there was no real point in owning many clothes that weren't office appropriate, leaving him with only a few casual outfits which he kept in a draw. Throwing on his most worn in jeans and a jumper so old it was more holes that material, he deemed the clothing suitable for house wear and returned to his spot on the couch.

A knot had formed in his stomach, momentarily, tightening then subsiding to inform him that his body still needed food but Arthur ignored it, not that he couldn't feel the hunger he simply didn't feel like eating. Besides, he had other things to do. He stared down blankly at the coffee table, sheets piled neatly in a stack with a pen, ready for use, beside them. Taking one flimsy page, he held it closer to his face, looking at it in the same, indifferent manner. Still, the printed symbols didn't register as anything more than nonsensical scribbles, however, if he didn't get this done he would be left to catch up, something he had managed to avoid in his four years at the company. As he glared down at the page, the page seemed to glare back, mocking his inability to just get on with a simple task. It should have taken him two minutes, how hard was it to read something? Becoming annoyed, he could feel his eyes begin to wander but, out of sheer stubbornness, kept them locked on the job at hand. He read the same sentence over and over yet the meaning of the words wouldn't sink in, something in his brain prevented them from processing correctly. The strain began to hurt, his eyes aching, but he knew if he admitted defeat now then nothing would get done.

Half an hour of staring at the same few sentences, the increasingly frustrated man's white knuckled grip around his pen was causing pins and needles to travel up his arm but he remained laser focused, anger rising and blocking his thinking even further. God, he hated his job. He only took so much home because he knew no one else would have it finished by the deadline if he delegated it out and, even then, it would all come back to him as his responsibility to oversee the unit. It really wasn't worth the pay he got. The soul reason he had taken the job in the first place was to support everyone and try to keep up with payments on the house but now that was gone, the boys didn't live at home anymore and he wondered why he stayed. Probably because he had no qualifications and even less of an idea of what else he would rather be doing. Complacency had taken over his life and there was no reason to change it.

A growl of anger passed his gritted teeth as he swept the orderly pile onto the floor in a moment of impulsive rage. Fluttering onto the carpet like straight edged snowflakes, they landed unscathed, face up and laughing at him. A prick of moisture stung the corners of his eyes but Arthur blinked it back, refusing to let his emotions win, he wouldn't be some petulant child crying over not wanting to do their homework. Despite there being no one there to witness the outburst, his cheeks became flush with embarrassment.

Crushing those preposterous feelings down, he went outside for a smoke. A thin film of liquid filled the air as there was not much more for the clouds to give, as evidenced by the steady stream that flowed from the gutter's spout and into the drain which was overflowing, blocked again. Arthur sighed at the realisation, knowing he would be left with the job of unclogging it due to Francis' squeamishness. Slumped down onto the stoop of the back door, sheltered by the little roof that jutted out from the wall, he placed a cigarette between his lips, struggling to light it with the dank atmosphere. When the end of it glowed orange, he removed it, holding it between his pale fingers.

Crossing his legs, he rested his elbows on his knees, leaning on them, his whole demeanour hunched. However he sat, his neck still kept that tweaking pain and he twisted it to try and loosen the lingering sensation, to no avail. It was growing dark as dusk closed over the sky, folding inward to turn the blank white expanse black. No stars were visible, what with the amount of light pollution in the inner city, and the moon kept itself hidden behind the clouds that still lurked. Darkness came earlier each day now that they travelled further from the sun's life-giving warmth and the end of another uneventful year was around the corner.

His cigarette had burnt half way down in his hand by the time Arthur decided he didn't want the rest of it and he stubbed it out in the flower pot they kept by the door for that purpose. The brown paper was stained a crimson red in patches, like rose petals, and he licked his lip to taste a metallic flavour. Light fading fast, he went inside to the artificial brightness, squinting his offended eyes. Dragging his feet to the kitchen, he rifled through the cupboards until he found the pain killers he was searching for and swallowed two in hopes of dulling the pain. He shuddered at the sensation of the chalky blocks scathing the walls of his throat and had to force them down with some water which left him choking, he'd never been able to take tablets.

Gasping after the ordeal, Arthur meandered back to the sofa, where he collapsed into a heap. The T.V still played and, without the energy to do anything else, he began to flick through the channels, each one eliciting the same non-reaction. He settled on some cooking competition, reminding him of the fact he had not eaten that day, which he stared at, half taking it in. Any inklings of hunger from earlier had faded but Francis would be home soon and that meant a full-on meal. He could eat half and make some excuse like he usually did, no worries.

As he sat motionless, the sweet caress of the cushions enticed his body into a further state of fatigue and, despite not having done anything that day, he could have fallen asleep with his eyes open. Pulling his legs up onto the sofa, he laid on his side, head propped up on one of the ugly, decorative pillows he had begged Francis not to waste money on. The only source of light in the room now coming from the images on the screen, shadow crept through the house. One arm hanging over the edge of the sofa, Arthur half expected for a hand to reach out from under the furniture and drag him down with those shadows. He wouldn't have minded if it did. Vision blurry in the flickering light, it was easier to simply stop seeing and so his eyelids slowly descended, welcoming the dark inside.

Francis furrowed his brow as he approached the darkened house. The windows were black and he wondered if, perhaps, Arthur had gone into work after all but the door was unlocked, so that couldn't be the case. Inside was as cold as it was out as the heating hadn't been turned on and Francis rolled his eyes as he thought of his partner's insistence of not putting it on a timer, dropping his things on the floor and proceeding inwards, about to call out to him.

However, he stopped by the door of the living room and, again, frowned as he looked in. On the sofa was Arthur, asleep in a ball, with the television still on and the floor littered with paper. He was about to wake the other man but, on coming further into the room to see the pale, marcid face, he thought better of it. Collecting the mess from the carpet, he piled the sheets on the table then went to turn on the heating.

Although he had planned on making his favourite meal in the hopes of cheering Arthur up just a bit, Francis felt it may go unappreciated with the current state he was in and so, instead, settled for something easier. He checked the fridge to see what he had to work with and noticed that nothing had been disturbed since last he opened it, concern for his lover swelling in his chest at what that implied. He took some vegetables from the draw at the bottom, washed and chopped them and set them to boil in a pan, then tidied up after himself. A clean kitchen was a successful kitchen, as his mother always told him.

He went across the hall as he waited for the water to soften the vegetables, leaving the light off so as not to disturb Arthur, knowing he was a light sleeper. With the main sofa occupied, Francis sat in the armchair and began to browse the channels on offer, tutting at the low brow programming of afternoon cable. As he settled back into his chair, the body a few inches from him began to shift as Arthur woke, gradually.

"Afternoon, endormi," he smiled over as the other man lifted his head, squinting against the flashing light.

A muffled hum was the only reply, Arthur still not fully present. "How long have you been home?" he asked, his senses returning.

"Not long. I am making soup," Francis informed him.

"Oh," the younger man stifled a yawn, "How was your day?"

"It went well, although I did almost drown on the way in," Francis sounded pleased, if weary, and, if Arthur had found the ability to be happy for him he would have been, "Yours?"

Seeing the mess he made had been cleared for him, Arthur felt the slightest bit embarrassed. "The umbrella is by the door," he informed rather than addressing the question, not wanting to admit what an unproductive day it had been.

A bubbling sound came from over the hall and Francis rose in response. "Dinner will not be long," he announced and went to see to the simmering pot.

Still in the half daze he had been all day, Arthur shuffled up into a slouched sitting position and watched whatever channel the other had changed to. The electric whisk blared from the kitchen, loud enough to drown out the voice over on the nature documentary that played as some unaware, wild deer got mown down by a lion.

"Cher Seigneur, why must life be so brutal?" Francis lamented from the doorway, bowl under his arm.

"Survival of the fittest," Arthur quoted with a cynically blank expression.

Pulling a disgusted face as guts began to go flying, the more-faint hearted of the two turned his back on the gory scene. "Tell me when it is over," he fretted and went back to the kitchen.

Eyes glued loosely on the graphic depiction, Arthur chose not to think too deeply about what he was seeing. He couldn't really feel too bad for the deer, the lion had to eat after all, and, anyway, it was its own bloody fault for not paying attention. Not that it deserved to die but it should have known better. Life was relentless. One little mistake and that was the end of it.

"Is it finished?" the Frenchman asked from the safety of the hall.

The segment had moved on to something less violent and Arthur confirmed it was safe.

"You can come back now."

A steaming bowl of soup was handed to him as Francis came in to take his seat again. "How can you watch these things?" he questioned as though he had just witnessed some horrific atrocity.

"It's only a T.V show," the other put into perspective.

"It is all too bloody for my liking," the more sensitive man protested with a shudder, "The poor creature."

Unable to share his partner's empathy, Arthur quietly sipped at the liquidised meal.

"Alfred and Matthew are coming over for dinner tomorrow," Francis announced to keep the conversation alive, "I asked them what they wanted and Alfred said pizza," he scoffed at the offensive request, shaking his head disappointedly.

"What are you making then?" Arthur asked.

"Real food," was the scathing reply.

Chuckling through his nose, Arthur glanced over and caught eyes with the other who smiled in return. "You can be such a snob," he reprimanded softly.

Able to laugh at his own flaws, Francis shrugged. "I know what I am doing therefore I am entitled to be," he cajoled.

It was the most time they had spent together all week and, although they didn't speak much, it was good to just be a couple for a few, intermediate hours. They spent the evening on the sofa, watching whatever shit happened to be on, Arthur even allowing an arm to be draped across his shoulders, both tempted to fall asleep where they sat. However, Arthur was not willing to spend another night downstairs after what the last one had done to his alignment and so the pair trudged up to bed, ready for the next days cycle to begin.

* * *

Work was horrendous, as expected, with new projects coming in as fast as Arthur cold be rid of them, causing a perpetual cycle of slipping further and further behind. He couldn't have been happier to leave that claustrophobic little cube. Even on a Sunday, the office was bustling, stressed faces speeding about in a scramble to meet the weeks quota. A mine field of potential holdups to navigate. Avoiding anyone from his floor, for fear of them requesting his help, he was almost to the hallway.

Although barely scraping by, Arthur had called it a day, unable to stay another minute and keep his fragile sanity intact. As he made his way to sweet, sweet freedom he caught a familiar, stoic gaze from across the room as Ludwig looked straight at him with intent. Quickly turning away in the hopes that he could pretend he hadn't seen, Arthur kept his focus firmly on the direction he was going and picked up the pace. So near, teasingly so, yet he had hoped for too much as, upon reaching the doors, his name was called.

"Arthur, may I speak with you a moment," the authorative voice cut through the background noise, causing the man addressed, along with half a dozen of his nosey colleagues, to stop.

He bit his tongue to keep from cursing aloud and took a deep breath, that did little to calm the irritation, before turning to his boss with an expression of forced politeness. "Of course, what can I do for you, Ludwig?" he replied, sounding sarcastic to himself.

As the taller man weaved his way between desks, gossiping whispers began to trickle around the office, as they did whenever someone was called by name. Rolling his eyes, Arthur brushed off the prying minds of other's, never having cared what his colleagues thought of him. If he had learned anything from those miserable school years, it was that other people would say anything about you to seem interesting and if being the black sheep would keep them from bothering him then that was fine. Still, they could have been a little more discreet about it.

Coming close enough that their conversation was private, Ludwig remained quiet for a few seconds and Arthur could have sworn his cheeks were pinker than usual. He cleared his throat and spoke, frosty eyes itching to look away, "Ah, I wanted to give you this," he struggled, voice cutting itself off with scattered hesitations. A hand holding a pristine white envelope was extended and, briefly, Arthur was too uncomfortable to react. Such an item didn't belong in Ludwig's possession, the silver embellishment on the corners was far too frilly for such a pragmatic man, "I would like to invite you to our engagement shower."

Shock registered on the Englishman's face, unable to contain the sheer surprise at the statement. "Oh," he uttered, thick eyebrows raised rather unprofessionally, "Congratulations, I hadn't heard the news."

As the envelope was taken from him, Ludwig gave a curt nod, clearing his throat of mounting awkwardness to thank the other. "Danke, Arthur. We hope you can make it."

It was odd to hear him speak as a multiple, the way long term couples who had morphed into one being tended to, as Arthur could only remember seeing both Ludwig and his betrothed together a handful of times.

"I'll try my best," he gave his assurance having yet to decide whether he actually would or not.

"We look forward to it," Ludwig spoke sternly even then and left to escape the embarrassment he clearly felt.

People still glanced, their curiosity penetrating, and Arthur tucked the letter into his pocket to read away from probing eyes. He traced the smooth texture of the silver gilding with a rough finger on the elevator ride down and out onto the street, taking it out to look at once by the bus stop. Tilting it back and forth, he admired how the lamp's light glinted off the metallic finish, winking at him.

A bus pulled up and Arthur boarded it, going upstairs to sit on the front window. Now in peaceful solitude, he studied the envelope, the thick, pristine paper almost too perfect to unseal but he did to expose the letter, creased like a concertina, inside. He unfolded the paper, words in printed cursive sprinkled the page like footprints in the snow, politely inviting him to the event. At the bottom were both of the couple's signatures, handwritten, Ludwig's familiar, pointed penmanship in stark contrast with the swooping longhand of the other's beside it, showing how much care had gone into the invite. It made Arthur feel slightly bad of how little he cared, especially as he had known Ludwig for quite a number of years and really should have been more invested. He was happy for them yet, the sight of the date only produced a feeling of dread at the thought of another social obligation. With a sigh, he refolded the paper and tucked it back into its casing.

The blurred lights of second floors breezed past, revealing snippets of lives like scenes from corny American sitcoms. Arthur had always loathed those shows, they built up unrealistic expectations of adult life, not that he had ever expected much. From his pocket there was a buzz and he pulled out his phone to see a picture message from Francis that showed dinner in the oven with text underneath reading, "Guess what Alfred just taught me". A smiled tugged at the corners of his lips on reading the technophobe's message as another picture came through, this time of Francis and Alfred together, beaming into the camera, with a rather confused looking Matthew in the background. At this, a laugh escaped him, and he saved the picture. He gazed down at the endearingly goofy smiles for a while before he replied, "Looks great," and turned off the cracked screen.

To the left of him the seat remained empty while to the right sat his mirrored image, floating in a parallel world behind the glass. Catching the tail end of a smile on his reflections lips, he observed as his own face dropped, settling on complete deadpan, the lack of light behind his eyes no longer startling. He looked away, eyes fixed on the road ahead, void of motion this time on a Sunday, only the occasional yellow flash of a headlight speeding towards him which was soon lost to his periphery.

From the floor below came a raucous of voices as the bus stopped to let on, what Arthur assumed was, a group of boys, teenagers. They clamoured up the stairs, with more noise than was strictly necessary, and occupied the back row, leaning over the backs of seats to talk and laugh amongst themselves. In spite of the fact that he may have seemed the type to complain about that kind of thing, Arthur didn't mind, feeling even the slightest bit nostalgic. Everyone was young once, after all, and he was no exception, not that he ever went out with friends or really had many to start with but the memory of carefree youth itself was pleasant enough. He watched them, subtly, in the shine of the front window. Their smiles, so genuine, almost painful to reflect on when he wondered if his own had ever looked that way. Trying to eavesdrop only made him feel old, barely able to understand the nonsensical slang that could have been a different language for all he knew.

Almost so distracted that he missed his stop, he jumped up just in time to slide between the closing doors and escape out into the open. Stumbling over the curb before righting himself, Arthur sped down the road and to the welcoming lights of his home. The sound of conversation could be heard through the open kitchen window from the driveway and an easy laugh drifted through.

"You're letting the heat out," he criticised on entering as he pulled the panel closed.

"Afternoon to you too," his partner replied in a semi sarcastic drawl, in too much of a good mood to be brought down by his lover's nagging.

"I'm just saying, you complain that the house is always cold," Arthur continued, allowing a chaste kiss on the lips before he went back to the hall to take off his coat.

"Sorry, Artie, that was me. My glasses were fogging up," Alfred took the blame as he came through from the living room with Matthew just behind.

Met with those sky coloured eyes, always so alive and untroubled, Arthur's mood lightened slightly, and he smiled in greeting. "How are you two?" he asked, looking at each in turn.

As usual, it was Alfred who responded first, groaning theatrically. "Ugh, I'm so sore. Coach has us running a mile extra a day in preparation for try outs, the man's nuts."

"Well if you want to do well you need to show you're dedicated," he added a look to get his point across then directed his attention to the quieter twin, "How about you, Matty?"

"Oh, yeah, pretty good, you know," the younger boy nodded and nudged his glasses further up the bridge of his slim nose only for them to fall back down, as they perpetually did due to the sloping angle at which he held his head.

"Will someone give me a hand with this?" Francis requested from the stove.

Both the younger boys moved to meet the call for help, but Arthur stopped them. "It's alright, I'll do it," he insisted, going through before they had a chance to disagree.

Francis gestured to the cutlery draw as he entered and, after living together for so long, he knew this as the signal to help set the table. He laid out the plates and silverware in time for a steaming pot to be placed in the centre of the table, the smell of it luring the rest of the house form the other room.

"Smells amazing," Alfred complimented, taking a seat.

"Merci, mon petit," the Frenchman brought out several smaller dishes of various sides then seated himself, "Bon appetit."

Wondering how Francis had the time to manage something like this, Arthur helped himself to what he found appealing, as did the others and they began to converse about their weeks, despite having seen each other only two days prior. There was little new information to be shared but no one minded, just happy to be in the company of people who cared what they had to say.

"So, what are you guys going as this weekend?" Alfred asked around a mouth full of potatoes, "I've already got my costume ready and its bomb ass."

"I am sure I can pull something from the back of the wardrobe," Francis thought aloud.

Waiting for someone to elaborate it became apparent that, yet again, Arthur was the only one out of the loop. "Costume?" he ventured.

"Gilbert's, it's a costume party," Matthew explained, "Halloween is soon so he decided to make it seasonal, I guess."

"For God's sake," the older man sighed. There were few things worse he could have thought of.

"Come on, man, don't be a stick in the mud," the most vocal of the group chastised.

"It is just a bit of fun," Francis backed him up with a gentle smile to which Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I don't even know if I'll go but you can all enjoy yourselves," he muttered, wanting the subject to be dropped so that he wasn't peer pressured into going, as he usually was.

"But you have too," Alfred whined, pulling his most endearing face, "You never do anything fun anymore, Artie. When did you get so boring?"

"When I became an adult," was Arthur's impassive answer, remaining unswayed.

"You're just worried you'll lose to me in the costume contest," Alfred smirked jokingly, "Old man."

Shaking his head, the eldest of the Kirkland siblings breathed a sigh of a laugh. "That would be the reason," he humoured.

By the time they had finished, the trials and tribulations of every person's week had been discussed, some in more detail than others. As the group began to pile plates atop one another, Alfred snorted at Arthur's contribution to the stack.

"What are you, anorexic or something?" he drew attention to the considerable amount of food still left on Arthur's plate.

"Don't say things like that, Alfred," the other frowned and quickly took the plates to the sink where they could no longer be scrutinised.

Frowning back, the younger man persisted, "You barely ate anything though."

"Well, some of us don't like to continually shove food down our throats," Arthur deflected, somewhat more violently than he had meant to.

"Jeez, okay then. I was only saying," Alfred backed away both figuratively and literally as he left to go across the hall.

The other two occupants of the room remained quiet, sharing concerned looks which flicked to Arthur once Alfred had gone. Catching both pairs of eyes, the Englishman turned away, keeping his attention on the sink of plates as though that would shield him from the silent conversation that was happening behind him. He could feel the back of his neck burn out of awkwardness but said nothing and, eventually, two sets of footsteps moved away into the other room. Staying there a while, staring at the dishes rather than doing them, Arthur listened to the conversation from across the hall and, for some reason, as he stood alone, he couldn't help but feel his presence wasn't missed. It was a strange sensation to have such a weight of melancholy descend, seemingly, from nowhere but impossible to stop thinking about once it was there. The longer he stayed, the more he felt that his being there was of little significance to anyone other than himself. Perhaps he was being selfish.

An exaggerated screech of hysterics caught his attention and, momentarily, prevented him from slipping further into the pit he had begun to dig for himself. Afraid of what might come to mind if he stayed by himself any longer, he ventured over to find the rest of his family in various stages of amusement, Francis near doubled over and gasping for breath.

"What's so funny?" he asked, eager to be let in on the joke.

"We were just talking about something that happened at football, don't worry about it," Alfred brushed off with a wave of his hand, "You wouldn't find it funny."

His heart sinking slightly, Arthur made no visible reaction and went to sit in the free seat beside Matthew.

Wiping his eyes, Francis sniffed and righted himself, his laughs petering away. "Mon cherie, you make me laugh," he chuckled with a sigh.

"Speaking of football, is there any news from Ohio yet?" Arthur forced himself into the discussion, thinking nothing would come from it.

Instantly, Alfred sat forward in his seat in a way that indicated something important. "Yeah, actually I heard from them this morning," he started, "I got a call saying tryouts are just before Christmas while school is out."

"That's convenient," the other commented, "You'll be back by the 25th, I'm guessing?" his tone slightly hopeful as he struggled to keep his desperation from coming through.

"Uh, well not exactly," the younger man disappointed with his answer, "You see, I called Paul and Linda to say I'd visit them while I was out there, and they asked if I wanted to stay with them over the holidays and, since plane tickets are so expensive around that time of year, I thought what the hell?" he elaborated with an easy smile. "I mean, if I might be staying there for a whole year it would probably be smart to try to get a feel for it, right?"

Just over a year ago, the couple Alfred spoke of had reached out to him over the internet claiming to be his and Mathew's birth parents. It had come quite out of the blue and, of course, most of the family had been sceptical. However, Alfred had insisted on giving them a chance and Matthew, being the open-minded soul he was, had agreed to go along with it and so they began the process of getting to know the parents who had abandoned them almost two decades ago.

Before they had become a part of the Kirkland household they had lived just down the street from Arthur with their Grandmother, who turned out to be the mother of their biological father. Even as the couple explained, teary eyed over Skype, that they had done what they felt right at the time by leaving them with another family member, Arthur wasn't buying it. There had been no phone numbers or addresses left with the elderly woman, no way to reach them. It was only by pure luck that Alice had been close with the boy's Grandmother as she would often go to help her now that she was beyond the point of properly looking after herself, let alone two young children. If it weren't for her taking them in after the old woman died they would have been left to the care system and, no matter how sincerely the American's apologised, there was something not quite right with the situation. But, as expected, all was immediately forgiven, and years of heartache seemed to be forgotten in an instant. The boys had spent two weeks with them over the summer in Michigan and came back with endless stories, half of which were rather implausible, that Alfred had enthused over for weeks. Yet, as nice a people as they came across, Arthur would never trust them, not that he would admit to that.

"Oh," the sound passed Arthur's lips almost silently and without permission, dismay tugging at his chest.

"Amour, we will miss you!" Francis cried dramatically, "You must call us every day, especially on Christmas."

Laughing, Alfred shook his head. "Would you stop? It's only a couple of weeks, I'm not dying."

"Who will eat my leftovers?" the Frenchman continued to wail jokingly as Alfred rolled his eyes at his surrogate brother's theatrics.

"Arthur?" a quiet voice from beside the man in question spoke up, "Are you alright?"

Concerned, blue eyes watched him from behind their frames and Arthur blinked back before stating a quick, "Fine."

"I didn't think you'd mind," the older twin directed his attention towards his brother again, breaking the quiet moment between him and Matthew.

"Of course not," Arthur replied without missing a beat.

As one bespectacled gaze smiled and looked away, another intensified in its scrutiny. Matthew watched his older brother, observed him as a scientist might their test subject with an expression only he knew the meaning behind.

"Christmas in the States, that sounds exciting, non?" Francis mused.

"Yeah, I'm pretty psyched. Might actually get a real, traditional meal out of it, too," Alfred chuckled easily at his own comment.

Gripping his chest, Francis made an exaggerated hiss of pain. "Why do you insist on hurting me so?" he despaired.

"Your food is great, don't get me wrong," Alfred backtracked with a well meant smile, "but you always do that gourmet stuff, not like mom used to. Not that she was exactly a great chef," he added as an afterthought.

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Alfred," Arthur immediately cut in at even the slightest hint of slander towards the sainted woman.

"I'm only joking, don't get you knickers in a twist" the other imitated in a horrendous English accent, "To be honest, Christmas wasn't going to be the same this year anyway, with the house and all," he admitted what everyone had thought at some point after the moving.

While the others nodded, Arthur mumbled, more sarcastically than could be taken as a joke, "I'm sure going half way around the world will fix that."

He had expected the comment to go unaddressed, however, he glanced up to find he was being stared at with uncharacteristic seriousness.

"Do you have a problem with me going?" Alfred asked plainly, his lips in a straight line as he waited for an actual response.

A tense silence descended, the room surprised by the change in attitude, no one knowing how to act.

Caught off guard, Arthur frowned in confusion. "No," he deceived too easily.

Raising an eyebrow, the younger man reiterated, "You sure about that?"

Scoffing at the question, Arthur forced nonchalance as though his whole family staring him down wasn't unnerving. "Yes, I'm sure," he faked, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"Oh my God, do you actually believe that?" Alfred disbelievingly laughed, furrowing his brow slightly.

"Alfred, don't," the soft tone of the younger twin spoke but was ignored.

"Excuse me?" Arthur questioned, not asking but giving him a chance to change what he had said.

"Don't do that to me, Arthur, we both know you never actually say what you're thinking," Alfred called him out, leaving the older man at a loss for words.

Stuttering a little before anything made it past his lips, Arthur could only deny the allegations being so unexpectedly thrown at him.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"See!" the excitable American stood, eyes wide and exasperated, "You're doing it right now! You hint that there's something wrong then you deny it and then when I do whatever it is that you don't want me to do you get all judgmental like I should have knowns better when you told me it was fine!"

Again, Matthew's desperate attempt of avoiding conflict was unheard, "Guys, please don't fight."

"I don't do that," Arthur's stiff tone sounded, strained as lying became harder when the truth had been so eloquently laid out in front of him.

"Yes, you do. All the time. It drives me insane!"

"I wouldn't do that," shaking his head, the older man surveyed the room, gaze landing on his partner for some word of support.

Quiet for too long then Francis confessed, "You do not exactly speak your mind."

Betrayal evident on his face, Arthur stared, mortified, at the one person he would have thought he could rely on.

"Thank you!" Alfred exclaimed, justified, "I'm not going crazy."

There was a pause as he looked to his brother, his own, vindicated expression dropping on seeing the hurt on the other's face.

"Arthur…" he began, guilt in his voice, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel bad, I was only saying-"

"It's fine," Arthur cut through his apology, the brief expression of his real emotion quickly covered up, "I'm not telling you what to do, you can do what you like."

Alfred watched him, and he stared back. The way his eyes flitted between the forcefully composed green ones made it seem as though he may say something, confront him again, but, with a deep, nasal exhale, he relented. He knew he was right, anyone who had ever met Arthur would agree with him, but the irony of the situation was that it was because he was right that he could do nothing. Arthur would never admit to what he was accused of and that left them none the better.

"I have a lecture in the morning," the younger man turned his attention to the carpet, "we'd better go."

"Get home safely," Francis bid his goodbye and he and Matthew both stood slowly, like they were afraid of scaring the pair, and the group walked its youngest members to the hall.

Stopping in the doorway, Alfred sent a remorseful glance back to the man that lingered in the shadow of the unlit lounge, eyes directed at the floor. "See you guys soon," he ventured.

Gaze lifting from the ground momentarily, Arthur flashed a strained smile but said nothing.

Matthew followed his brother out the door, stopping on the front step to give an apologetic look to both his former guardians, Francis giving him a wry smile in return, Arthur having already gone back into the living room.

The older man stayed watching the two boys make their way down the street, their breath visibly trailing behind them like steam engines across the moors, and didn't close out the cold until they turned the corner.

Finally closing and bolting the door for the night, Francis sighed, running a hand through his hair and considering what to do before facing his partner. He, himself, wasn't sure how to feel at how the night had ended but was certainly becoming exasperated with Arthur's aloof demeanour. Wanting answers, he went through to get some.

"What was that about?" he asked, walking in on the other who sat, eyes glazed over as he stared into nothingness, in the darkened room.

"You tell me," he muttered, "you seemed to agree with him."

Francis folded his arms and raised an eyebrow, his tone low and sober. "Are you mad at me?"

Still looking elsewhere, Arthur bit his inner lip. "No," he seethed.

"Arthur, would you stop!" Francis couldn't help himself from snapping as the same argument started over again, "You are only proving his point. If you are mad at me then tell me you are mad and be done with it!"

"Why do you always side with him?" the other growled, making eye contact, his glare dark, twisted even.

The sight of it startled the older man, causing hesitation before he countered. "I do not always side with him," he tried to defend.

"You do, and you know you do," Arthur prosecuted, rising and coming closer, "Whatever the situation, you're always the first one to agree with him."

"What is so wrong with showing him some support occasionally?" Francis shrugged, gesturing his hands in front of him.

Raising a bushy eyebrow, the shorter man narrowed his eyes upwards. "You say that like I don't," he inferred.

"Well, you can be rather harsh at times," Francis didn't back down.

"Do you not think he needs it?" the man in question's older brother asked rhetorically, "Let's both try telling him he's always right and see how that goes." His sardonic sneer was biting, the worst of him coming out in his anger.

A frown scored the forehead of the other as he shook his head, confused now that the scorn had been turned onto him, too easily for there not to be an underlying problem. "Why are you trying to turn this into something against me?"

"Because, apparently, that's how you want it to be. You and him making me the bad guy," Arthur would have none of his lover's victimised mind frame, supressed frustration making him calloused.

"You think I am trying to turn him against you?" Francis construed, somewhat disbelievingly.

"Don't be stupid, of course not!" the other seemed to be frazzled as he pushed past him to pace a few steps in the hallway. "I'm just saying that it doesn't help when you're constantly undermining me," he contradicted himself, "What kind of message does that send?"

Increasingly confused, Francis stood in his path to stop his erratic movements. "Stop talking like we are their parents, you are their brother!" he forcefully reminded.

"I'm not just their brother, though, am I?" Arthur raised his voice, not shouting but enough that his boiling temper was unleashed, "Not since mum died and I suddenly had to be some impossible mix of their brother and their parent and I know I did a shit job with it, but no one ever said you had to stay!"

Mouth agape, the Frenchman shook his head, completely taken aback by the escalation. "I do not even know what it is you are angry about!"

"I'm angry because I'm constantly being shit on!"

Whatever the original argument had been it was left behind but, even though Arthur knew he had gone too far, something in him wanted to keep going. It had been a long time since he'd felt such a fire beneath him and he was afraid what he might feel once it went out, not even thinking of the damage that may be done as a result.

"This is more than just what I did then," folding his arms, Francis' voice took on a righteous edge, "Are you taking out some pent-up work frustration on me because I am the closest?"

A snarl curling the other's lips, he hissed, "I am taking out my frustration with you on you!"

"Well, quite frankly, I do not think I deserve it!" the older man challenged, "I do not know what has been going on with you lately, but I am sick of the way it makes you treat me!"

"How's that then!" Arthur wasn't shaken by the rare display of genuine anger.

"Like I am not important to you anymore!" his voice cracking as he let his feelings of the last few weeks spill free, Francis implored, earnestly, with pleading eyes for some kind of an explanation.

A moment of clarity seemed to pierce Arthur's red tinted vision as he saw the first inklings of a real, meaningful topic infiltrate the trivial fight. Blinking at the face, on the verge of tears, inches from his own he was confronted with what he was capable of and it made him loath himself.

"For fuck sake stop!" panic seared his tone, just wanting to end what he had caused, terrified of how it would end, "I'm not having this argument with you!"

"So, you admit there is something there to argue about," Francis, equally as distraught, urged to go on.

He reached out his arms to the smaller man who had begun to back away, shaking his head in denial of what was beneath the exterior of their relationship now that the surface had been scratched.

"Tu es tellement têtu c'est impossible, will you just speak to me?" he beseeched as he grasped the other's shoulders, close to literally trying to shake some sense into him.

"I said shut up, Francis! Shut up!" what little composure the other may still have maintained shattered as he screamed, shaking the gentle grip off and speeding up the stairs where the slamming of the bathroom door abruptly ended the scene. He didn't know how else he had expected things to end but, still, Francis felt that chilling emptiness creep in at knowing it would go unresolved for the night.

Perched on he rim of the bath, slumped over with his head in his hands, Arthur listened to the stairs creak as the weight of a person bent the old, bare boards. A solid form darkened the slat of light from beneath the door and, shortly after, came a quiet rapping on the wood.

"Arthur," his name was called softly from the other side.

Chewing his lip, he waited, hoping the other would go away but knowing he wouldn't without a reply.

"Amour," the voice outside changed its tactic.

"Piss off," Arthur half-heartedly bit.

"I am sorry," Francis began a dolorous attempt to right the evening, "things got heated, I admit, and I should not have acted like that, but I just want to talk to you abou-" the begging man didn't care that he sounded desperate.

"Fuck off, Francis," Arthur interrupted him, "before I say something you won't like."

It was an empty threat, he wanted almost nothing less than to cause more pain. The only thing he dreaded worse was to attempt to express feelings even he didn't understand.

Francis leaned his forehead against the door outside, fingers lingering over the knob that he knew to be locked. Defeated, he stood back, waiting a final minute for something else to come from the sealed room but, as expected, there was not a word.

Light from the hall permeated the crack under the door again as the body outside retreated. Steps descending the stairs could be heard, just another stab as Arthur realised his partner was going to sleep on the couch so that he could use the bed, his kindness only a twist of the knife he had used to stab himself.

He waited a while longer, picking at his nails, and felt the sting of tears which he sniffed back, screwing his eyes shut, until, eventually, he unlatched the door to let himself out. Stepping onto the landing he glanced down the stairs to see the lights off, meaning Francis was most likely asleep, and went to the empty bedroom. Anger had used what little energy he had and the hollowness in his chest willed sleep to come faster, as though his body's defence mechanism to such strong emotion was to force it away with the sweet release of unconsciousness.

Francis heard the other moving upstairs as he stared at the ceiling, salty drops trickling from the corners of his eyes, down his temples, falling into his hair. They had fought countless times through their years together, over everything from whose turn it was to vacuum to what school the boys should go to, but nothing had ever felt quite so dangerous before. There were deeper problems lurking not far beneath the skin and it frightened Francis. While he wanted to excavate them, from the way Arthur had reacted to his probing, he feared that once he started digging he may find himself in a hole too deep to get out of. Yet, at the same time, if nothing was done the damage may become irreparable. He wasn't sure which was worse.

* * *

I hate this chapter and I can't do pacing, sorry. Review and follow if you enjoyed. Thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

A ghost of the early hours, Arthur crept down the stairs, moving cautiously so as not to wake the man he wished to avoid a conversation with. Breath hitching as a low creak came from the boards beneath his feet he stood, statuesque, listening for any sign of movement from down the hall but the house remained silent. He moved on, drifting with the lightness of a shadow, reaching the bottom of the one-story flight. With a small sigh of relief, he continued down the hall, all clear, until he passed the doorway where a croaking voice addressed him.

"Arthur?"

He stopped, as though he might blend into the background if he stayed still long enough, and saw the darkened form of a face rise from behind its pillow to squint at him with sleep shrouded eyes.

"I am sorry," Francis apologised without hesitation, not wanting to drag the situation on any longer than his partner.

Inhaling deeply, Arthur seconded the thought. "Me too," he breathed, guilty as he knew he should have been the one to say it first.

At relative peace once more, Francis gave a tired smile and pouted for a kiss to which the other obliged. Their lips pressed together with tenderness and a hint of regret at the wasted minutes spent apart. Feeling a hand snake up into his hair, Arthur pulled away, afraid of being enticed, licking the moisture from his lips, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, coyly.

"I'll see you later," he murmured.

Trailing his hand down the other's warm neck and over his shoulder, the older man gazed lovingly up, visibly ragged after the previous night. "Have a wonderful day, mon ange," he wished his lover.

The thinly veiled infatuation that resided behind those cyan eyes seeped through to their forefront, blinking up with such affection that a blush reddened Arthur's face. He leant over the arm of the sofa to place an adoring kiss on the Frenchman's forehead, the scent of his knotted hair engulfing him, a scent that hadn't changed since the day they met and never failed to bring him back to that time. He could feel Francis lean into the contact and it pulled at his heart strings to move away, allowing his lips to ghost over the pale skin before stepping back. Still looking up with longing eyes, a few shades less desperate than they had been the night before, the older man's lips curved into a smile. If actions spoke louder than words, then Arthur had just screamed his feelings from the rooftops and nothing more needed to be said on the subject.

Each morning was more bitterly cold than the last and the air stung his cheeks on impact, scraping at it with claws of ice. Fastening the top button of his coat to shield his exposed neck from the attack, Arthur buried his face down into it as he began to walk, hands shoved deep into his pockets, only brought out to show some affection to the familiar furry friend he met half way to the bus stop.

Although nothing wildly out of the ordinary had taken place that day, something about it felt different. The kind of feeling that was impossible to put a name to, to explain even, yet is familiar. Unsure what had caused such a sensation, Arthur was intrigued as to where it may lead him and so, quite spontaneously, allowed it to take a hold of him, becoming, almost, a spectator in his own life.

Leaving the domesticated creature behind, he moved on, disjointed but happy about it. He felt himself veering off down a side road he rarely took, strolling almost the full length of it until he came to an off licence. There was a buzzing as he pushed the door open to alert the shop keep of his presence but other than that the place was quiet. It took him a few moments to find what he had come in for as he meandered through the isles to, eventually, find a rack of buckets which held several meagre bunches of flowers. Surprisingly, amongst them was the specific bloom he had in mind and, even though they were hardly the most stunning roses, Arthur took them up to the counter.

"£6.70, please," the attendant politely requested, prompting Arthur to pull out his card and slot it into the machine. "That's an extra pound charge," the relatively young-looking man behind the counter informed him.

"That's fine," Arthur replied, "I feel like living life on the edge today."

He caught even himself off guard with the out of nowhere, witty remark and the attendant chuckled. "Well don't go too crazy," he passed the plastic money back with a receipt, "Have a nice day."

"You too," the words came from the Englishman's mouth despite the fact he had not thought to say them and, even stranger, they were meant.

Paying more attention to the flowers than what direction he was going in, Arthur's body instinctually knew the rout to any destination within the small, outer city town, having lived there the entirety of his life. He picked at the velvet petals, flicking away specks of dirt as even the tiniest imperfection seemed to spoil their purity, and anything less than perfect simply wouldn't do.

Not far off in the distance, half shielded by newer, taller, buildings, stood the dilapidated old steeple of the church, climbing up to the heavens, still as Arthur remembered it from his youth. All those painfully early Sunday mornings spent in the ancient hall with a congregation just as old, mouthing the words to songs and prayers he didn't understand. Rain or shine, or even snow occasionally, his mother would force him out of bed every week, doing the same with Alfred and Matthew when they came along, stuff them all into their best clothes and drag them down for the weekend service, not a single one missed. Until they were old enough to form their own opinions, that is, as at the age of fourteen Arthur had finally had enough and the younger two boys had soon followed his example, much to their mother's disappointment. Although she had been accepting of their decision, Arthur had always carried a certain amount of remorse over this as he knew it had hurt her feelings, however much she had assured them it was their choice. Despite this, he remained pessimistically agnostic on the whole situation. He had nothing against those who followed a faith, even envying them at times, but it just never made any sense to him.

Drawing closer, the slate roof of the main hall became visible, holes where tiles were missing more numerous each time he visited, as did the stained-glass windows, depicting the saints of old that had seemed to stare down at him as he sat on those rock-hard pews, doing his best not to fidget under their scrutiny. Perhaps that was why he could never subscribe to Christianity, he felt judged enough already.

The gates he eventually came to were rusted and let out a wailing creak when he forced them open onto the dirt path that led to the church door. He followed the track, however, didn't enter the building, veering off to walk around the side of the crumbling brick walls and to the back where a secluded section lay hidden. Pushing through another gate, this one in a further state of disrepair, he paused, looking over the small patch of sacred ground, before proceeding.

It was a peaceful place, the roar of traffic cancelled out by surrounding hedgerows and, although there was dense city not a mile away, it was as though someone had ripped some rustic, country church from its natural habitat and dumped it just outside of London. Yet it remained hidden by the walls of greenery and the sanctity of religion. The living only ruined things, this was a place for the dead.

Graves were scattered unevenly through the yard, some well-kept and others in need of attention, their headstones simple with only dates and brief epitaphs etched into them. Browsing the ones he passed by, Arthur wondered what would end up on his, probably not much. He may not have been a religious man but he could see the appeal in a place like this. There was a certain comfort to it, a homely feeling, as though some force shielded it from the reality of time.

Meandering his way through the stones, he stopped before one that he could remember choosing himself. With a smile, he knelt close to it and replaced the wilted bouquet from his last visit with the fresh one he'd just bought. He glanced over his shoulder quickly then, safe in the knowledge that he was alone, struck up a solitary conversation.

"Hi mum," he started in his usual manner, "I'm sorry it's been a while but there's been a lot going on."

Sighing lightly, some of the stress, built up to breaking point, seemed to be released and swept away by the tranquil mood. Several small weeds had begun to sprout in his absence and he plucked them from the soft soil as he continued to monologue.

"I should probably start with Alfred, his is the most interesting life, after all," he mused as he tore the leaves of the creeping buttercups he had pulled up, "he's caught the attention of some American talent scout. They invited him to try outs in America, so he might get a scholarship to play football over there." His tone had been relaxed but now became sombre, "He has it in his head that I don't want him to go." Eyes on the tattered plant in his hands, he spoke earnestly, for once, as there was no point lying to someone who wouldn't reprimand the truth, "I do, though. I want him to do well, I just…you know what he's like. I worry he won't come back, is all."

Going quiet like he expected some sort of advice to be given there was, of course, only silence.

"I know you would worry too," Arthur picked up the one-sided exchange, "but you would probably handle it better."

A breath of a laugh passed his lips, knowing his mother's response would be to tut and tell him he was too young to worry. However, that probably wouldn't be true, anymore.

"He leaves soon, I'll make sure he visits you first," he assured. Despite the fact he had been nagging Alfred to do so for weeks now, he still hadn't, much to the older man's annoyance.

The main reason he had come out of the way, Arthur turned his thoughts to lighter news, casually relaying the daily goings on of the family. "Matthew is doing well at school too. Very well, actually. He's one of the best in his class, not that he'd ever admit that himself but, I heard through one of his friends. Francis is enjoying work and I'm…fine too."

He hesitated only slightly, a lapse in his speech at having to turn the attention on himself, something he had never been comfortable with.

"The office is the same as ever, but I can't complain, at least I have a job," he updated to fill the void, afraid of allowing the silence to drag on for too long, "Oh, yes, and Ludwig and Feliciano got engaged just the other day. I don't know if you'd remember them. They've been together quite a while now."

Only the chirping of birds spoke back in a language he didn't know and so, with nothing more to say, Arthur stood, leaving the roses where they lay.

"I promise I won't leave it so long until next time," he vowed to the polished granite, "love you."

A tight smile contorted his lips as his surroundings remained deathly still, naught but the trees and the birds for physical company. Although not an outwardly affectionate person, Arthur never once felt strange admitting such an emotion in that place. He wasn't quite sure what he thought of life after death, it was highly unlikely, and he acknowledged that, but something about still speaking to someone who was long gone somehow staved off the thought of them as nothing more than a worm-eaten body, just bones and rot by that point. Wiping a final spec of dirt from the smooth surface of his mother's final resting place, the only living man in the little walled in space turned and left.

His entrance into the office garnered some attention as he arrived over an hour late to work due to his impulsive diversion. The fact that his daily routine was in tatters, for some reason, didn't bother him in the slightest and, had he been an optimistic man, he may have actually believed he was happy.

The sixth floor was teaming, people who usually didn't get in until after Arthur already working, some of them seeming confused by their colleague's appearance, checking their watches and pulling expressions of mild surprise. He ignored them, as ever, their attention not meaning much to him as he went to his office to find it already occupied.

"Good morning," he greeted, cheerier than usual, the trespassing German.

It was an amusing sight to see the intimidating frame of the stern man jolt as he was alerted of the other's presence. Turning to see the man whose office he was invading, Ludwig seemed uncomfortable, not that this was out of the ordinary, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't be.

"Ah, guten morgen, Arthur. I was just looking for last week's figures," he explained himself, neatening a pile he had disrupted, making it look out of place against the rest of the room which stood in a state of disorganisation.

"Oh, right," Arthur located them immediately, the mess making sense to him, and handed them over.

Smiling tightly, Ludwig gave a nod and tucked the file under his arm. "I was beginning to wonder if you were not coming in," he commented on the other's unusual tardiness.

"Sorry, I had something to take care of at home," he made a white lie of an excuse.

"I understand," the taller man bobbed his head in a nod of agreement once more and made for the hallway, "have a good day."

They were not far apart in age, yet, when speaking to Ludwig, Arthur always felt as though he were speaking to someone beyond him in years, even though he was the elder of the two. He could remember their time in school together, as he had been two years below Arthur and Francis, Gilbert running up with his brother in tow to proudly show him off to his friends. Even then, he was the same, face straight, words serious, more like a middle-aged politician than an eleven-year-old boy. Strange to think he would be married soon.

Midday arrived almost as a shock to Arthur, as though it were something that had not been happening since the beginning of time, as did the rapping on the door of an unexpected visitor.

"Knock knock," Alfred imitated the sound of his actions, his golden head poking round the doorframe.

"Alfred?" Arthur's frown of confusion contrasted the smile that emerged below it at the caller, "What are you doing here?"

The younger man stuffed both hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged, "I finished early, wondered if you wanted to come out for lunch."

Pleasantly taken aback by the offer, the other blinked, his smile growing. "I would love to," he enthused, pulling on his coat without hesitation, "Where did you have in mind?"

"You told me about that café that's just a block away, I thought there?" Alfred recounted a conversation that had taken place longer ago than Arthur thought he would remember.

"Perfect," he agreed.

It didn't take them long to reach the eatery and, as they took their seats, it seemed they had arrived just in time as a short spurt of rain began to dampen the street. A cheery young woman brought over a pair of menus for them to browse but Arthur already knew what he would be getting as it was a place he had used to frequent. At first, he wondered why he had stopped coming but then remembered it was because the staff had started to recognise him and, out of some sort of deeply rooted, Londoner's instinct, this meant that he could never return.

"What are you getting?" Alfred enquired from behind the laminated sheet.

"The omelettes here are good," Arthur advised to aid his difficult decision.

The younger man hummed in thought, his expression humorously concentrated, and the waitress came over again, tiny note pad at the ready, and asked in an accent that Arthur couldn't quite place, "Ready to order?"

"Yes, thank you," the older man looked up to her smiling face, "I'll take an omelette with tea, please."

She promptly scribbled down what he had said and turned her attention to Alfred.

"Uh, yeah, um," the American boy seemed to lose the ability to speak as soon as they made eye contact, his own gaze darting wildly, "I will take the same, too, as well…please…" his words ran on and trailed away like some horrible car accident that just wouldn't end.

He received a puzzled look from the man across the table, but the waitress seemed to think nothing of it, making a note of the order and assuring them their food would arrive shortly then returning to the kitchen.

There was a moment of silence, wherein Alfred thought that, perhaps, his embarrassing slip up had gone unnoticed, but, alas, Arthur wasn't about to let something like that slide by.

"What, in God's name, was that?" he asked, bluntly, eyebrows raised in amusement.

Forcing a fake frown, as though he didn't know what the other was referring to, Alfred scoffed. "What was what?" he feigned ignorance.

Arthur, however, wasn't letting it go. "That…display," he pressed with a vague gesture at the other's general being to emphasise his bewilderment.

"Nothing, it was nothing," Alfred mumbled with a shrug, averting his eyes only for the waitress to walk by at that exact moment and, noticing she was being watched, flashed a bright smile. Becoming flustered, the usually confident teen quickly turned away.

Immediately recognising this pattern of behaviour, a smirk settled on the older man's lips.

"What?" Alfred caught the look he was being given.

"You like her, don't you?" Arthur came to the obvious conclusion, that smug grin stretching wider.

"Pft, no I don't," the other denied, only strengthening his brother's argument.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur would have none of it. "Oh, would you stop. I'm not stupid, I know that look," he tutted, "Why don't you ask her out?"

The American seemed about to reject the words of encouragement he was offered but then sighed, running a hand through his short hair. "I'd like to but…I don't know."

At the look of trepidation on his brother's face, the older sibling furrowed his borw. He wasn't used to seeing the rambunctious teen so hesitant, especially over a social situation.

"Why wouldn't you?" he questioned with a slight tilt of his head.

"I don't know, man," Alfred repeated, a look of uncertainty resting on his features, "I guess I'm just a little worried after what happened with Natalia. I mean, she was my first real girlfriend and, well, you saw how that ended. All five times."

His concerns were understandable, what with the disastrous relationship he had not long been freed from, but Arthur was, unusually, in no mood for pessimism.

"You can't let what happened in one relationship discourage you, Al. Some people just don't work together," he urged but was met with a less than enthusiastic grunt, "She's very pretty," he tried a different approach, swivelling around in his seat to look at the woman in question.

She was, indeed, a very attractive girl, her skin almost glowing a warm golden brown, with light hazel eyes and hair like mahogany that reached her waist, tied in pigtails.

"Yeah," the other man lamented, watching her also, pining almost.

"So, ask for her number," Arthur continued to push, gently, "take her out for dinner or whatever people do for a date these days."

"I know I make fun of you sometimes but you're not that old," Alfred joked with a smile.

Shaking his head, Arthur, again, rolled his eyes at his brother. "You know what I mean. I think it would be good for you."

"Yeah, I know," the younger man exhaled and adjusted his glasses, "Thanks for trying but I think I'd better leave it. I've already embarrassed myself enough."

Slightly disappointed, Arthur resisted the temptation to meddle in his sibling's life and soon their food was brought over.

Lunch passed in easy conversation, Alfred putting up with being teased over his little crush throughout, and the pair finished with enough time for Arthur to get back to work without having to rush.

"I'm paying this time, and don't argue with me," Alfred sternly announced, standing before the other could protest.

"Alright, if you really want to," the older man chuckled at his insistence, not feeling too bad about letting him pay for the cheap meal.

Going to the counter, Alfred made sure to leave a generous tip, and returned to find his former guardian hunched over the table in a peculiar fashion.

"What are you doing?" he addressed the other's turned back.

"I'm leaving that girl your number, you'll thank me later," Arthur could no longer resist the need to do what he thought best.

"What!" Alfred exclaimed as he lunged to grab the napkin with his phone number written on it, "That's not cool, dude, give it to me."

He was prevented from grasping it as the older man slid it out of his reach.

"The worst that can happen is she doesn't call," he rationalised, "It's worth a try."

Ceasing his struggles, Alfred pouted a little. "Fine," he relented, "but if she calls me just to laugh in my face it's on you," he exaggerated his anxieties.

"Something tells me that won't happen," Arthur softly chided and they left the building together.

Alfred was unfamiliar with the area and so trailed Arthur back to the office block where he was able to find his way home from. They stopped outside the automatic doors to say goodbye but the younger of the pair halted his brother from returning to work so fast.

"Hang on a second," he stopped the shorter man who turned back, an expectant look on his face. With a wry smile, Alfred spoke thoughtfully, "I wanted to say sorry again for last night. It didn't sit well with me and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings at all."

His ability to so easily admit his wrongs was something that Arthur both deeply admired and resented yet just couldn't fathom. His lips curving upward at the other's innocent expression, he still felt guilty over the whole thing.

"I told you, it's fine," he assured, wishing he could say the same back in return.

"I just needed to say it. I don't like worrying about you," the sentiment was strange to hear coming from someone else.

"Stop it, you're turning into me," he chastised to which the other laughed in his usual carefree manner.

"God forbid," he joked back, unaware that Arthur fully agreed, "See you soon?"

It may have been the unpredictable mood he was experiencing or perhaps he wasn't as immune to those puppy dog eyes as he would like to believe but, for whatever reason, a series of words he knew he would regret spilled from his mouth.

"I'll see you Saturday night," he promised his time away, much to the delight of the younger man.

"See, I knew you were still fun," he elbowed the other gently, prompting a smile, and grinned, beginning to walk away.

"Tell me if you hear from that girl," Arthur called after the retreating figure who shouted back, without turning around.

"Yes, mom."

Arthur watched the figure disperse into the crowd on the street, a light sigh slipping from him, and went the opposite direction only when the shining, golden head was gone from sight completely.

The arctic wind spurred Arthur home as he walked the length of his street, coat wrapped tightly around himself. Eagerly approaching the driveway, the illuminated kitchen window told him he had both a warm meal and a warm welcome to look forward to and so didn't wait a second to put his key into the lock. To his surprise, however, the door swung inwards with force as soon as he did so and behind it was the man he had so lovingly bid farewell earlier that day, scowling at him.

"I want to speak with you, monsieur," Francis stood in the hallway, stopping Arthur from crossing the threshold, "How could you not tell me!"

Frozen like a deer in the headlights, the ambushed man mentally ran through every possible mistake he could have made but came up blank.

Trying not to let this show on his face, he worded his response carefully. "What is it that you are referring to exactly?" he almost winced with the anticipation of a tongue lashing.

"This! I found it on the floor after you left, I cannot believe you!" Before him was presented the white envelope, he had received the day before, it's contents also being shown to him, "How could you not tell me they got engaged?"

Breathing a sigh of relief, Arthur's whole being relaxed. "Sorry, I forgot. Ludwig invited us to the engagement party yesterday," he explained what was already obvious.

"I should have been the first to know about this, mon dieu, how I adore a wedding," the overemotional Frenchman clutched the letter to his chest in a melodramatic fashion, his tone wistful.

The other laughed through his nose at the sight of his significant other behaving like a school girl in love and rolled his eyes. "They only just got engaged, don't get ahead of yourself."

"But, amour, how can you not be more excited?" the older man enthused, trailing after his partner, "Two people have vowed to love each other for the rest of time, it is beautiful, non?"

Shrugging a shoulder with a placid smile, Arthur didn't share his lover's elation to the same degree. "It's nice but it's just something people do," he expressed his underwhelming opinion.

"I do not know how you can be so unromantic," Francis frowned, disappointed, "Why am I still with you?"

"Green card?" Arthur joked, darkly, drawing a gasp from the foreign man.

"You are a bad person," he scolded, unable to hide his smirk, his own sense of humour, secretly, just as risqué.

Simply blowing a kiss in return, the other took the invitation and sealed it for safe keeping, leaving it by the door under their events calendar where he saw the date had already been circled.

"I told Feli we would be attending," Francis informed him then added with a pointed look, "and we are going."

"Yes, dear," Arthur drawled, playfully.

"You are awful," the other threw back, going to the kitchen, "Dinner is in five minutes."

To end the day without being relieved it was over made Arthur far happier than it should have. Sat with a smile on his lips and no more but trivial worries in the back of his mind life seemed manageable. Not perfect, but as close as it could be. This attitude must have shown on his face as the other man took note of it as he placed two plates on the table and took a seat.

"What are you smiling about?" he enquired.

Arthur shook his head and shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing," he replied, "I just had a good day."

Keeping his eyes glued to the younger man, Francis found himself mirroring that same half transparent smile he held at these words. Although Arthur may have thought himself a good liar, his face read like a book and the Frenchman could always tell when something was genuinely meant. To hear something both positive and true from his partner seemed a thing to be treasured nowadays but still managed to make Francis' heart warm with joy.

"What?" Arthur interrupted his train of thought, drawing attention to the fact that Francis had been staring.

"Nothing, amour," he uttered, staring still, "I just wish to admire you."

The other knitted his robust brow in a mildly bemused manner. "I'll never understand the French," he mumbled.

Enjoying the quiet company, the house was in stark contrast of what it had been that time twenty-four hours prior, the mood warm and companionable. Francis didn't have much to share, having spent the day at home editing, and so let Arthur take control of the conversation which, surprisingly, he relished in.

"That is so sweet," Francis crooned in response to being told about Arthur and Alfred's impromptu lunch date.

"It was, I'm glad he came to see me," the other agreed.

Standing and clearing the table, Arthur dumped all the used utensils into the sink and begun to run a bowl of warm, soapy water. Luckily for them, there was never a dispute over who's turn it was to do the washing up as, since Francis always cooked, it only seemed fair that Arthur cleaned up afterwards.

"Perhaps you and I should have a lunch date sometime," Francis suggested.

Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur hummed. "Maybe," he half agreed.

A soft, sighing laugh came from the taller man. "Can you even remember the last date we went on?" he mused as he rose from his seat.

Although the question was rhetorical, Arthur cast his mind back, trying to remember their last outing that could have been considered a date.

"When we went to that black and white French film screening in Leicester Square," he recalled, "Do you remember? We got there an hour late and missed the only one you wanted to see because of the delays on the underground then it was pouring with rain when we got out and it ruined my suede jacket."

Francis had come to stand behind him as he rambled on about what he apparently remembered to be a fairly miserable night, leaning against the fridge door to his left.

"Why do always look at the negatives like that?" he shook his head gently.

"Because that's how it happened," Arthur responded, matter of factly, "The whole night was a disaster."

"Is that really how you recall it?" Francis seemed genuinely surprised, folding his arms and furrowing his brow lightly.

"Do you remember it differently?" the smaller man enquired.

"Well, not differently but you missed out all of the good things that happened," the more optimistic man spoke, reminiscing how he thought the evening had gone. "We were late and we did miss the first film but it did not bother me, I ended up liking the other ones more than I thought I would anyway. Then we left the theatre and it was raining so we went into a little bar to wait for it to stop and listened to that wonderful pianist and drank a whole bottle of wine," his voice was low and enticing as he moved to press his body against Arthur's back while he purred his recollection of events, winding both arms around the slim waist. "But it would not stop raining," he mumbled into his partner's ear and Arthur couldn't supress a shiver as the hot breath caressed his skin, "so we just had to run through it and by the time we made it to the station we were soaked to the bone."

Finding himself lulled into a state willing hypnosis, Arthur leaned back into the larger body, his head resting against the other's shoulder. "Well, if we did have a whole bottle of wine I'm not exactly shocked I don't remember that part."

A chuckle rumbled the chest he was pressed against, warm breath tousling his fringe as the Frenchman's stubbly chin rested on his shoulder. "It was a shame about that jacket, though. However, I am not too sympathetic," his leering smile foretold the lude comment that was to come next, "since I could hardly wait to rip it off you after we got home."

Rolling his eyes at the predictable direction his significant other took the conversation in, Arthur tutted. "I was waiting for you to ruin the story."

"Is it not a romantic note to leave it on?" Francis waggled an eyebrow in a suggestive manner to which the more modest of the two pursed his lips into and unimpressed line, flicking a handful of bubbles over his shoulder into his lover's face.

Spluttering as he received a mouthful of suds, Francis cursed and choked on the taste of dishwater, much to Arthur's amusement. Playfully glaring at the smaller man, who snickered behind his hand, a vindictive grin crept across the victim's face and he approached.

"Oh, mon cher, you will regret that," he jestingly threatened, lunging across the room.

By the time Arthur began to react, it was too late, as Francis had leapt to where he stood in one stride and caught him, holding him around his midriff with both arms pinned to his sides. Their faces close, the imprisoned man leant away as much as he could, squirming to get free.

"What the hell are you-" he started to question but was cut off when Francis started wiping his slimy, soap covered face against him, laughing maniacally and grinning like a madman.

Letting out a, not so manly, squeal at the unpleasant sensation, the younger man struggled harder to get away from his lunatic of a boyfriend, his undignified shrieks turning to shared laughter as the two disintegrated into a heap on the floor, both sticky and smelling of dirty dishes.

It took a while for the bouts of uncontrollable giggles to subside but, eventually, the pair calmed down and sat catching their breath on the kitchen floor.

"So, how about that lunch date?" Francis asked, still smiling like an idiot.

"Piss off," Arthur retorted, grinning just the same.

He shuffled away and rubbed at his cheek, finding it tacky to the touch. Grimacing at the feeling, he made to stand and announce his plans to shower but was stopped from leaving by a hand gripping his waistband. Looking back at the man who contained him, Arthur found himself met with that same, near irresistible, look he had escaped that morning, however, this time there was no reason not to give in to it.

Francis moved in to kiss him, not lustfully but it was clear where this kiss was intended to lead. The hand that held his trousers slid upwards to rest on the small of his back, it's touch gentle and warming, while the other held the curvature of his jaw. Arthur's own hands wandered, softly cupping his partner's neck, urging them closer together. The kiss deepened to the point it was no longer appropriate for outside of the bedroom, tongues becoming tentatively involved, and the smaller man's body arched into the larger one.

It was Arthur that parted them, smiling somewhat bashfully, conveying all he needed to with a look as he stood and made his way out of the room, pausing in the doorway to throw a glance back over his shoulder. At the inconspicuous hint, Francis practically chased after him, stumbling to his feet, and the two scampering up the stairs.

With the bedroom door allowing them some privacy, they resumed their activities, latching on to one another with lips and arms as they moved towards the bed. Lowering himself onto the mattress, Arthur slid over to allow enough space for another body to lay close, pulling the other down with him with a prolonged kiss. Stretched out across the bed, Francis pulled away, their faces still close.

"Let me go and freshen up," he murmured, pressing their lips together once more, drawing it out before separating and pushing himself up.

Letting his had slip from its loose hold, Arthur's lips retained the tingling sensation of warmth as he watched Francis' go, eyes drifting to a certain asset he couldn't help but admire. He heard footsteps to the bathroom then the door closing and found himself alone yet still with a smile on his face. In his solitude his mind strayed to reflect upon the strange mood he had been experiencing that day, still unable to find the root of what had caused it. He felt positively giddy for no reason at all.

Sighing contentedly, he went to go and close the curtains, looking out over the darkened street as he reached for the blinds, staring through the image that haunted in the glass. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so happy. He wondered when he would be this happy again. After all, happiness was not a permeant state, at least, not for him.

He frowned at the realisation. It wasn't something he had meant to think, almost like the idea had been forced into his head, but now it was there, and it was uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. A sense of anxiety crept in, twisting his organs, in anticipation of when the feeling would, inevitably, end and in doing so, like some sort of a cruel, self-fulfilling prophecy, ruined everything.

Outside the wind shook the trees, some of its chill creeping through the window which was opened just a minute crack, causing the man who stared out with increasingly deadened eyes to shiver. He grasped the handle and pulled the opening closed tightly, fastening it to be sure nothing else would infiltrate the warm room, and went back to staring with a vacuous expression but, this time, his line of view was blocked by the person that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Two black holes where there should have been life watched him as he failed to see through the transparent man. Face white, cheeks hollow, lips cracked with patches of dark, blood and bruises all over them like he had some kind of disease. He was looking at a corpse and it disgusted him.

"Amour," the door hinges creaked and a voice called out in alluring tones, but Arthur was too fixated on the window pane to respond.

The version of himself that others saw blinked back at him, eyelids barely open with nothing behind them.

"Bonjour, rêveur?"

A second reflection appeared in the mirroring surface, looking so alive next to the first one that remained unmoving. It tilted its blonde head, and Arthur could feel its physical counterpart coming closer. His stomach churned as he watched his lover move to kiss the dead man's neck.

"Wait," he moved away, stepping out of view of the window to look at Francis who gazed back, loving and confused, "I'm sorry, I have work tomorrow, we shouldn't."

His eyes dropped to the floor, too guilty to look into the ones that watched him so innocently.

"It is not late, we have enough time to still get to bed at a reasonable hour," Francis tried to convince him, reaching out to take a hand that was instantly pulled away.

"Another night, Francis," Arthur began to draw into himself, his shoulders hanging, a look on his face like he had just committed some heinous crime he was trying to cover up, "I'm sorry."

Totally perplexed, Francis looked about to persuade him once more but instead shook his head and gave a small smile. "Do not apologise, we can just go to bed, cherie."

His kindness was painful, but Arthur nodded, finding the thought of someone wanting to touch him revolting, and made sure to turn off the light before he got changed. Climbing under the covers, Francis laid closer than was normal, the full length of his boy resting against Arthur's back as though he aimed for the optimum amount of contact.

More concerned than disappointed, the older man stayed quiet as he felt the other's breathing even out, the rise and fall of his fragile looking chest pressing against his arm, and his muscles relax. He found himself enduring, yet another, sleepless night as worry kept him up until the sun rose, pale pink over the rooftops, and another day resumed.

* * *

Working on a Saturday didn't seem like a strange thing to Arthur anymore, as it happened more often than not. In fact, he had come to see a six-day week as the norm. The task of waking up at an ungodly hour on the weekend to pull on that hideous straight jacket of a suit was depressing but something he now accepted without complaint and, as he fastened his tie, he neglected to check his appearance before going downstairs.

Leaving the house, he was greeted by the rasping call of the crows, the first and ugliest sound of the day, and turned to see one of the ominous birds perched on his neighbour's fence, beady eyes like black water surveying him. Even as he came close to it, close enough to reach out and snap its neck if he had wanted to, it didn't flinch, stoic and composed as a statue, watching. It was only after Arthur had passed by it that the winged creature jumped from its low roost, extending its sleek appendages and taking flight through the morning mist, disappearing over a rooftop.

The morning cool with bleak light, he walked, strides like the tick of a metronome. He turned his head to the side where he expected to see the little white face to pop up. When it didn't he paused, halting his routine and peering over the low wall to find the front garden empty. Although curious, there wasn't much time to spare, and, therefore, he carried on his pace, keeping an eye out for the missing cat. Before long he found it. A tail poking from under a bush. He crouched to see the still body. Eyes open, dried blood trailing from the button nose. Paralysed in non-expression at the sight, something inside him lurched yet he swallowed it down. There was nothing to be done, and so he left.

It wasn't until he was entering through the automatic doors that Arthur realised he had walked the entirety of the hours journey, his legs wavering beneath him, throat dry from panting. Some instinctual part of his brain told him that if he stopped moving he wouldn't be able to start again and, therefore, ignored the stares he was receiving and made his way up the stairwell, only half feeling the agony he had caused himself as the whole world seemed to be behind some sort of a screen, muted and far off.

Sat, breathing heavily, blurry eyes fixed on the blank monitor, some kind of a repeated ringing picked up in the background. In his dazed state it took him a while to respond to the invading stimulus but, eventually, semi focused on a figure in the doorway.

"Mr Kirkland?" Erika called as forcefully as she was able, still barely above a whisper, "What is the matter?"

"What's the matter?" he felt the need to echo.

"You look like something has upset you," the childish look of wholesome concern was enough to bring Arthur back into the moment briefly.

Catching his slanted reflection in the glass panel of the door which stood ajar, he saw his face marred with damp, red tracks, like scratch marks, that trickled from his eyes and nose.

"Nothing," he sputtered, wiping his cheeks with the heel of his palm as subtly as he could, "Nothing I'm fine…Uh, did you come to give me something?" he cleared his throat and looked at her expectantly.

Directing her gaze shyly at the floor, the tiny girl seemed to almost whimper, "No, Sir, I just came to say good morning."

"Oh," the older man felt instantly remorseful, "Good morning."

She gave an awkward nod and scampered away, shutting the door as she left.

Closed into seclusion with nothing but his mockingly joyful screensaver for company, Arthur logged in to the system, unable to look at the smiling faces of the past without feeling the sting of tears form behind his eyes.

Various e-mails from an assortment of angry colleagues came through until noon when the apathetic man turned off his notifications, bored to death by other people's issues with him when he had so many better reasons to feel the same way about himself. Managing to make no progress, he took a late lunch and, with half a pack of cigarettes and no appetite, what to do with the half hour he had left seemed obvious.

Other smokers that loitered by the potted plants outside the office seemed puzzled to see him as he lit up, further polluting the rancid city air. Snippets of their conversations floated by but Arthur didn't care to listen, an introspective mood taking over and the sudden need to isolate himself becoming all he could think of. Throat burning from the punishment it had endured, he tossed the empty pack into the nearest bin.

Coming back to his office in his unbroken trance, he almost didn't notice the unfamiliar object waiting for him. On the desk sat a plastic, take away cup, steam twirling up from the little hole in the lid. Curiously, he sniffed at the warm receptacle, recognising the smell of camomile tea. Strange; but he didn't think too much of it. He took a sip, scolding his tongue so that the flavour was obscured, the flavour of cold, autumn afternoons with his mother as they sat together in the kitchen listening to her favourite radio talk show, just the two of them.

Hours passed like they were being marched to the gallows, each one impossibly tedious but, eventually, Arthur locked up his broom cupboard for the remainder of the weekend, not planning on returning until Monday, and felt the phone in his hand vibrate as he did so. A text message from his significant other lit the screen, informing him he was already at the night's event then, shortly after, a second text appeared, reminding him of the dress code. With a loathsome sigh, the reluctant guest typed out a quick reply and left the building.

He was reminded that the weekend was halfway over already when he boarded the empty bus. A commuter's noose swung from the ceiling with the motion of the vehicle, the only occupant watching it with masked eyes. The air from his lungs left his mouth in a visible stream as the interior of the bus was barely warmer than it was outside, however, the feeling of being enclosed within a space gave the illusion that this wasn't so, causing Arthur to shiver as he stepped off it into the open. Beginning to walk home, he veered off down a side street, telling himself it was so he could visit the off licence for another pack of cigarettes and no other reason.

Sealed pack in his hand, he continued on his way home, the side streets emptier than the way he would usually go, far off voices and traffic just about audible. Only one street to cross and a quiet one at that and so didn't think to look both ways as he stepped from the curb. A low humming to the right of him became louder, the asphalt illuminated by headlights that approached at the thirty miles per hour speed limit. Plenty of time to retreat to the safety of the pavement, however, he didn't do this, instead walking out further. Lights growing brighter in is periphery, the instinctual urge to run for safety was absent yet he remained fully aware of the consequences of his actions, gliding on a track.

The rush of air across his face was all he felt as the car sped by, the width of a hair away. He didn't turn his head to see it disappear into the night, instead staring straight ahead as he made it to the other side, unfazed.

House empty, as Arthur had known it would be, he ascended into the darkness of the unlit landing and into the bedroom where he switched on his bedside lamp. Lowering himself onto the end of the bed, he took in a deep breath, like a reverse sigh, and let it flow from him. The cloudiness from that day was persistent, still skewing his mind, as though he were looking down on his own life from a great height. Lamenting the fact that he had so freely thrown his time away, wishing the day could end where it was, he rubbed at his eyes and breathed out once more.

Although Alfred had been adamant to see him in costume, Arthur considered his presence an endeavour on its own and so felt little guilt over his lack of effort. He had meant to buy a pirate hat, or something else minimally embarrassing, but had completely forgotten, perhaps for the better, however, he still wanted to get changed, hating that damn suit more and more each day he was forced to wear it. He slipped off his shoes without undoing the laces and began to strip the ill-fitting garments from his body, letting them crumple on the floor. The small heap of grey polyester looked almost liquid like, trousers, shirt and jacket all melding into one another, and Arthur wrinkled his nose at it.

Leaving the pile where it lay, he stood to go and find something more comfortable to put on but, in doing so, caught something out of the corner of his vision that distracted him. Against the slate coloured clothing, a flash of fluorescent pink was clearly visible and attached to the back of his suit jacket. Immediately recognising this as one of the post it notes that Erika left a trail of wherever she went, he unstuck it from the material and read the note scribbled on it in twisting letters.

Expecting it to be some form of work related reminder, a twinge pulled at Arthur's chest on seeing the two-word message 'cheer up' with a doodle of a smiley face below it. For a long time, he stared at the simple words that had more of an affect each time he read them over in his mind. It was a command he wanted nothing more than to follow and, even though a subconscious smile graced his lips, he didn't know if he would ever be able to.

Time slowly making him late, Arthur tore his weary eyes from the paper and went back to the task at hand, dropping the note, meaning for it to land on the mattress. However, with tired eyes, he watched as it missed and fluttered under the bed, like a defiant butterfly. Another heavy sigh came from his thin frame, and he bent to his knees in order to retrieve it, for some reason feeling it would be disrespectful to let such a kind-hearted gesture be left and forgotten.

Spying the bright pink easily in the dark, he reached an arm out after it but found it just out of reach, his fingers ghosting one of the edges. He felt compelled, however, to recover the touching note and so laid down, flat on his stomach, and shuffled partly under the wooden frame, stretching his shoulder as far as it would allow, to feel blindly over the dusty carpet. A few seconds of clasping at air until his hand brushed past something the texture of paper, stuck to something hard and cold.

Frowning in uncertainty of what the item could be, not recalling anything being stored under the bed, he took hold of the strangely shaped thing and pulled it from its hiding place, his brow smoothing out as he saw what he was holding. In his hand was an old, tattered, very worn in combat boot. One of a pair, of course, that he had owned since he was sixteen. A birthday present, he recalled, from some aunt or uncle that he hadn't taken off for the rest of his teenage years.

A laugh escaped him as he remembered how his mother had tutted and said he looked ungentlemanly while his brothers had been in awe, Alfred exclaiming how he looked like a soldier or a spy in them. Arthur could have sworn that he had thrown them out years ago, but they must have been unearthed in the move and, somehow, ended up hidden under the bed. It was irrational to be so deeply attached to a shoe, of all things, but, as Arthur looked down at the worn leather, the beaten-up soles that had taken him so many places, he couldn't help but be transported back to better times and, at this, an idea came to his head.

* * *

I still can't do pacing and I know there are probably loads of mistakes in this chapter because I was too tired to check it properly. Guess I'll just have to edit it while it's up. But hey, punk Arthur.

Feedback is welcomed (if it's not too mean) and I'll try to get the next chapter out sooner. Thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

Warning - Mature(ish) content ahead and translations at the bottom.

* * *

Gilbert's house looked like some kind of laser show, visible from half way down the street, with red and blue lights strobing from every crack. As Arthur approached, he could hear the low thumping of some overly produced club mix and raised voices shouting over the top of it from the back garden. It appeared the party was in full swing already, despite the hour hand not yet having reached the eight, as he noted the bins outside tipped over and some rather crushed looking potted flowers under the windowsill.

He didn't expect to be heard over the racket as he stepped up to ring the doorbell, however, almost instantly, the door swung open onto the madness within.

"Willcommen to party central, mein-" the enthusiastic host greeted but stopped short in shock at what he saw, "I'm sorry, I did not realise my front door was a time portal," he joked, a silver eyebrow raised as a smile spread across his face.

"You're truly hilarious," the barely recognisable man drawled sarcastically, folding his arms with a deadpan stare, "I didn't have a costume, so I thought I'd be creative."

The older man stood staring amusedly at, what appeared to be, a seventeen-year-old Arthur. Dressed in dark jeans, an oversized, tattered old band t-shirt, his beloved leather boots and, to complete the outdated ensemble, familiar, hand me down, biker jacket, it was as though a ghost of the past had arrived to haunt him.

"Wait," he looked his guest up and down, his expression becoming one of understandable concern, "this isn't some kind of mid life crisis, is it?"

"What? No," Arthur furrowed his pierced brows at the question.

"Then I approve!" the other went back to grinning, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture of his arm to welcome his friend through.

Ushering him into the hall, it became evident to Arthur that he had taken the season's theme rather seriously as fake cobwebs adorned the walls and plastic bats and spiders were scattered about the place in gimmicky decoration. As he stopped and looked back at the other, he noticed the black jumper he wore was ornamented with two red horns sticking from the hood and a forked tail hanging from the back. The German came through behind him, smiling to reveal a pair of fake fangs that, oddly, suited him quite well.

"Care for some spooky syrup?" he ladled Arthur a cup of neon liquid, presumably alcohol, from a punch bowl and held it out to him, "I made it myself."

Peering into the cup, the younger man wrinkled his studded nose. "What the hell is in this?" he studied the drink with revulsion.

"Slugs and snails and puppy dog tails, eye of newt and-" Gilbert smirked with glee as he jestingly riddled.

"Fuck it," Arthur griped, downing the cup without so much as a blink.

"Woah there, Artie, it's not going to evaporate," the crimson eyed devil awkwardly chuckled.

Shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh, Arthur gazed down into the empty receptacle. "I have had an awful day," he admitted as he looked to his friend with a slightly crazed smile, "I'm assuming you never drank that whiskey I got you for Christmas last year?"

The older man took a moment to asses the situation before a wicked leer stretched across his face. "Tonight just got so much better!" he enthused and brought Arthur through to the almost deserted kitchen where a familiar face welcomed them.

"Arturo! You made it!" beamed the Spaniard dressed rather flamboyantly, if stereotypically, in a red matador costume, "Good to see you again."

"Give me a minute," Arthur headed directly for hosts liquor cabinet and retrieved the, still sealed, bottle of bourbon from the back.

Snapping the plastic from the cap as he twisted it off, he poured himself a glass, the pungent stench of the amber liquid saturating the air, and, in one, long drink, knocked it back and treated himself to another, generous glassful, turning to his friend with a strained smile.

"You too," he croaked.

The priceless look of bafflement on Antonio's face said what words could not as he seemed utterly appalled.

"Jesus Christ, Arthur, bad day?" he deduced from the telling display.

"You could say that," the other dryly remarked.

"I love drunk Arthur," Gilbert exacerbated from over the Englishman's shoulder like the instigator he was.

"Hey, I'm all up for a good time but we are not as young as we used to be," Antonio attempted to dissuade the anarchy he could foresee.

An unconcerned snort emitted the shorter man. "All the more reason for it," he retorted, taking a gulp of his liquor like it was lemonade.

The brunette winced, never one for the hard stuff, but knew better than to get between Arthur and his vices.

"Where's Francis?" Arthur noted his partner's absence, looking around as he leaned on the countertop.

At that moment, the man he spoke in reference to flounced through, sweeping the cape he wore around himself for a dramatic flair, with Alfred just behind him.

"Do not fret, mon lapin, your love is-" he paused, as Gilbert had earlier, at his lover's appearance, the side of his mouth left uncovered by his mask hanging agape.

Saying aloud what they were both thinking, the teen barked a laugh, his eyes wide in surprise. "I didn't know Black Sabbath were in town," he commented satirically.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at his brother who was clearly quite proud of his quip. "If it's that big a deal, I'll go home and change," he rolled his eyes, hiding the self-consciousness that had started to creep in behind his snarky manner.

"Calm down, I'm only messing with you, dude," the American conceded, smiling wide as he shook his head, "Shit, I thought you would have thrown that stuff out long ago."

"I guess I never got around to it," the other shrugged, looking down at himself.

It had taken some rummaging to find the old clothes and the multiple piercings that covered his face probably could have used a wash before he put them in, but, despite the reactions he had received, he was glad he had kept the things. Nostalgia, and perhaps the booze, had taken hold and, through his rose-tinted glasses, the world seemed somewhat warmer.

"Well, I think it is rather appealing, mon amour," the Frenchman purred, sidling up to him with a hooded gaze.

Lip curling in disgust, Arthur shot a contemptable glare at the other and moved away from the arm that had snaked around his waist.

"Now I'm definitely changing," he bit to the entertainment of those around them, "And who are you supposed to be?"

Standing back with a flourish of his arms, Francis flaunted himself, drawing several pairs of uncomfortable eyes to his unnecessarily tight, black, spandex trousers. "I am the phantom of the opera. It suits me, non?"

Both eyebrows held aloft, the Englishman ran his teeth over the metal ball through his tongue, the sensation pleasantly reminiscent. "You mean the whiney, drama queen that lives in the sewers perving over a younger girl? I think it's perfect for you, dear."

His response garnered a chorus of whooping and snorted laughter from the small group and Arthur hid his self-satisfied expression behind his drink.

"Here," Gilbert got a fresh beer from the fridge and held it out to Francis, "for the burn."

"You all get mean when you drink," Francis moped, slinking away to refill his wine glass while his friends continued to joke at his expense.

"I love drunk Arthur," Alfred remarked.

Looking to the younger boy, his brother noticed something, or, rather, a lack of something.

"Alfred, I thought you said you had a costume," he observed the issue with the boy's statement of several days ago as he seemed to be dressed as he usually would be.

"I do," the other confirmed with no further explanation.

About to reply, Arthur stopped himself, squinting as a horribly uneasy feeling came over him. He couldn't put his finger on what but, something was off.

"Is something…different about you?" he tried to figure out what was making him so uncomfortable but couldn't see any obvious changes.

"I told you, I'm wearing a costume," Alfred grinned smugly at his brother's confusion, unable to hide the fact that he was dying to tell him what he was up to but enjoying his utterly flummoxed look too much to spoil it just yet.

Casting his eyes about the room, Arthur saw the others holding back snickers, already in on the secret, leaving him stumped.

"But…" he continued to frown, perplexed, eyes flitting over the younger boy to find nothing out of the ordinary.

"Maybe you should tell him before his head explodes," Gilbert suggested out of worry for the pulsing blood vessel in the shorter man's eyeball.

"Alright, alright," the American relented, "Man, I thought at least you would get it," jokingly, he lamented, however, it was quite clear he was taking great pride in his scheme. "I'm Matty!" he revealed, "We traded glasses and borrowed each other's shirts, how smart is that?"

Knowing didn't make it any less jarring as Arthur noted how the slightly rounder frames objectively did not suit Alfred's face, even though the difference was barely detectable.

"I don't like it," he stated, deeply disturbed, "Can you even see?"

"Not really," the perpetually unperturbed man smiled, "But what does that matter when you're getting blackout drunk?"

He punctuated his sentence with a swig of beer and, although Arthur would have liked to give him the disapproving older sibling look, he felt its affect may be lost in his current get up, not to mention that he was beginning to feel the effects of his own drinking.

"Atta boy," the oldest of the group threw an arm around the youngest member, clinking their bottles together a little too enthusiastically, causing bubbles to froth over the rim.

Shaking his head, Arthur made sure his cup was filled, as he was sure he would need it, and rolled his eyes. "Where's your brother?" he addressed the present twin.

"Hanging out with the dog in a quiet corner somewhere, is my best guess. I lost track of him when we arrived," the more social of the two brothers told him.

"Poor boy," Arthur grabbed a beer for his misplaced sibling before leaving the solitude of the relatively peaceful room for the crowded hallway.

Forcing his way past the ridiculous number of guests, half of which, he was sure, weren't invited, he made it to the darkened front room. It was almost impossible to see through the mesh of people but, at the other end of the room, a secluded corner caught the Englishman's attention, as he was sure it would have done the more antisocial teen's and, therefore, he pushed in that direction.

Sure enough, sat on a sofa with Friede, Gilbert's German Shepard, at his feet, Matthew sat alone and a little out of place. Yet, this didn't seem to bother him, as he happily petted the soppy dog who, on Arthur's arrival, gave a subdued bark in greeting and trotted over. He had always had a way with animals.

"Hello to you too, miss lady," he gave her a scratch behind the ear and held the beverage out to his brother, "Enjoying yourself?"

Eagerly taking the drink, Matthew cracked a tight smile, not able to hide the hint of awkwardness in his eyes. "It's a good party, I guess," his soft voice was almost undetectable over the thumping music, "A little busy though."

"Just a bit," Arthur sarcastically muttered, sitting in the space beside the quiet boy, "What are you doing out here by yourself?"

A gentle laugh blew past the other's lips, "Alfred went to go say hi to someone, I told him to meet me in here," glancing at the time on his phone, he gave a light sigh, "I guess he wasn't listening." While most people would have been offended at being forgotten, Matthew was used to it by this point and it barely fazed him anymore.

Tutting at Alfred's continued carelessness, Arthur kept his thoughts to himself and stood. "He's in the kitchen with everyone else," he informed so they could go together.

Before they could fight their way back through the human blockade, however, they were prevented by the sad whining of an attention starved pet.

Looking down at her, Arthur spoke as though talking with a human, "What could you possibly be crying about, you're the most spoilt animal I know."

In response, the behemoth of a dog lay on it's front and rolled over, legs in the air and tongue lolling from the side of its mouth, waiting patiently for a belly rub. Shaking his head at the endearing creature, Arthur bent to one knee and obliged, chuckling as a heavy tail began to thump against the floorboards.

"Four years it took me to get that dog to stop barking the house down whenever I was near and for you she is a kitten."

A good humouredly, exasperated voice spoke from behind. One that Arthur recognised instantly and could hardly believe his ears in hearing as he turned, in stunned joy, to have his disbelief proven wrong.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he beamed, practically jumping up to embrace his seldom seen friend.

Hugging back, Elizabeta laughed effeminately at both the younger man's appearance and his warm welcome.

"When I used to say how I wished things never had to change, I didn't mean it quite so literally," she drew back to take in what she was seeing, her slender eyebrows arched.

Arthur ignored her subtle, verbal jabs, grinning madly as he seemed in awe of the woman's presence.

"W-well how come you're here? Last I heard you were in Prague."

Waving her hand in a dismissive manner, she shrugged. "I had some issues at the Russian boarder and I thought 'screw it, six months is long enough. I want to go home,'" her simpering expression was sentimental as she reached out her arms to smoosh her friends cheeks in a maternal fashion, "Besides, I missed you all."

Playfully batting her hands away, Arthur found himself unable to wipe the smile from his face and questions tumbled from his mouth without censorship, "How long have you been back? Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"

"I arrived last night, I'm staying here, with Gil," she answered, "he wanted to keep me a surprise for you guys, I suppose," holding her hands to the sides, she displayed herself like some grand reveal, "Surprise!"

"It's so good to see you," the usually reserved man, again, flung both arms around her, spilling some of his drink on the floor as he did so, and squeezed her tight, like he was afraid she may disappear as suddenly as she had materialised.

Both Matthew and Elizabeta exchanged amused looks at the action.

"I think he may have had a few drinks already," Matthew piped up, a little redundantly.

"I love drunk Arthur," the Hungarian woman simply chuckled, patting her friend on the back.

Their private gathering was interrupted as, from the doorway, they were beckoned to the kitchen by the cheery Spaniard with the offer of tequila shots.

Half an hour, several shots each and almost a full litre of tequila between them later, the seven of them stood scattered about the kitchen, chatting about nothing in particular, happy to be reunited as a complete unit for the first time in, what seemed to be, forever.

"Jeez, when was the last time we were all together like this?" Gilbert mused, tone slightly morose as he realised just how long it had been.

"Must be about two years, at least," Antonio recollected.

A melodramatic groan came from the German man, his shoulders sagging as he mourned for years gone by. "I'm not ready to be old! My best days aren't behind me yet, I've got so much more awesoming left to do!" he sighed dejectedly, letting his platinum head fall onto Francis' shoulder with an immature pout. "When did we all become adults?"

"I don't think all of us did," Eliza's witticism was as sharp as ever and the oldest of the group shot her a sneer with a sardonically exaggerated laugh.

"It's alright, Gil," it was Arthur who lent a comforting word, "Clearly you're not the only one who isn't ready to let go of the past just yet," he gestured to his vintage get up in reference.

"I forgot how many piercings you had," Matthew marvelled at the amount of metal protruding from his brother's face.

"Yeah, I'm surprised you're not sticking to the fridge," Alfred concurred.

Chuckling lightly, Arthur raised a hand to brush his fingers over the multitude of earrings that stapled the cartilage of his right ear. "I may have gotten a bit carried away," he understated, "but I blame Liz."

"What?" the accused woman put a hand to her chest in shock, open mouthed at the prosecution, "It wasn't my idea! You said you wanted it done!"

"Well you had the safety pin!" the younger man countered. Despite the fact they must have looked like school children squabbling over nothing, Arthur didn't care. He was having fun.

"Woah, woah, woah, hang on," Alfred interrupted, nose screwed up in disgust, "You pierced his ear?"

Elizabeta nodded, not seeing the big deal, causing the American to shudder.

"Ew! Dude, that's so gross!" he exclaimed.

A sweet giggle emitted the older woman. "I can do yours for you, if you like, Alfie," she offered with a devilish tilt of her lips.

Immediately clasping both hands over his ears, Alfred backed away a few steps. "Stay away from me, you sadist," he aggrandized, never having liked the thought of punctured flesh.

"It's not as bad as the time that somebody tried to give himself a tattoo with a sewing needle and paint," Antonio attempted to rationalise, sending a look to the man in question.

"And they haven't allowed me in the craft store since," Gilbert reminisced with a misplaced, nostalgic twinkle in his eye.

"You guys are twisted," Alfred sent an appalled look at the, supposed, adults who only laughed at the fond memories.

"You must remember this stuff, Al, you were there too," Arthur pointed out, recalling the twins at twelve years old, Alfred sulking in the hallway as he was left behind, deemed to young to be going out at night with the rowdy group, and rightfully so.

At this the twins exchanged looks, sharing an internal joke that wouldn't make sense to anyone else, and the older of them raised his eyebrows with a snorted chuckle. "All I ever heard was you trying and failing to sneak in through the window at three in the morning and mom giving you the lecture."

"Oh Lord, the lecture," Arthur grimaced, guilt registering on his face at the mere thought of the incriminating words he had heard every weekend of his teenage years, "I know you were only having fun," he echoed the opening line of the well-practiced speech.

"But think about the consequences," all three Kirkland's impersonated in unison as they were all painfully familiar with how it went.

"I think she even used that on me a couple of times," Francis laughed along with them.

"Same here," Gilbert chimed in and the other two present nodded in assent, not one of them having been spared the sainted woman's parental scorn.

"It just meant she cared about you," Arthur justified, a small, and slightly melancholic, smile settling on his face as he sighed. "I really could give her hell sometimes, couldn't I," he murmured under his breath in reflection.

"I wouldn't feel bad about it, Arthur," Matthew's reassurance drifted from behind, "You know she never really minded."

"I know," the older man wiped the hint of sadness from his expression with ease, clearing his throat as he located his newly purchased pack of twenty, "I'm going out for a smoke," he announced and made for the back door.

The crisp air sent Arthur's head reeling the second it hit him, the alcohol and lack of food a dangerous combination, and he leaned his elbows on the patio wall as he waited for the spinning to subside. Like the rest of the house, the garden was full of bodies, hot breath and smoke in the air as people stood off to the side with their roll ups which, from what Arthur could smell, were not tobacco.

Sliding the thin sheet of plastic off the cardboard was something that never failed to be oddly satisfying, the way it glided so perfectly and kept its shape was one of those things that just always felt good. He lit a cigarette and let it hang from his lips, the cold not as cold as it should have been. Groups of drunken guests blundered around with hoots of laughter, not a face there that the Brit recognised and exhaling a deep held, polluted breath, Arthur relished in the feeling of lowered inhibitions. It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed being drunk, more the blissful ignorance that came with it, the need to put more focus on what was currently going on obscuring the stress of tomorrow so that it was, for a while, forgotten about.

Above the background clamour came the scuttering of claws on wood as, from the back door, Freide bounded out into the garden and, not far behind her, a disgruntled Elizabeta emerged. The much faster animal escaping to the lawn, its pursuer stopped in the doorway with a resigned huff.

"I swear she disobeys me on purpose," she made a gesture of irritation, "She's doing it to get on my nerves, I tell you."

Shaking her head in defeat, the Hungarian came to stand beside Arthur, who sent her an amused side glance and offered her the opened carton.

"She's just trying to show you who's boss," he ventured, "You know how possessive she gets over her dad."

Scoffing as she rolled her emerald eyes, she plucked a cigarette from the box and held it out to be lit. "Such a diva, not that she's got anything to worry about."

"That's what you said last time and look what happened," the younger of the pair clucked like a mother hen.

"Well, this time I mean it," the other vowed, prompting a sceptical look from her companion. "What? I mean it. It's over with us," she felt the need to assure, only causing the furry caterpillars raised at her to crawl further upwards. "You are the worst," she groused into her cigarette, giving up on the argument she knew she couldn't win.

The look of jovial reservations that rested on Arthur's face turned to a smirk which quickly placated to blankness as both of them looked out over the carnage that consumed their friend's garden. Cups and accessories of various costumes littered the grass, as did a plethora of human 'substances', not that this bothered the dog, who still roamed between intoxicated groups, happily taking in the questionable smells on offer.

Eliza surveyed the scene with mild distaste for a while then turned back to her present company, laying her chestnut head on her folded arms that laid on the banister top to gaze up at him.

"You're not about to make some pathetic excuse so you can go home, are you?" she asked with a look that was eerily similar to the one Alfred had used to get him there in the first place.

A light frown tugged at Arthur's forehead as he replied honestly, "Of course not. This is the most fun I've had at a party in years."

"And you still look like someone shit in your top hat," came the aptly vulgar, reply.

Her sense of humour was something that Arthur had always admired, and he couldn't hold back a snorted laugh. "I'm just tired," he went for his go to excuse.

"Because you haven't been taking care of yourself," Elizabeta stood upright to reprimand him, "You look awful."

Again, Arthur choked at her bluntness. "Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?" he drawled derisively.

"Hey, I'm not going to bullshit you," the outspoken woman held up her hands with an earnest expression, "I'll bet you haven't even eaten today."

The silence she received gave her the answer and the validated grin that formed on her lips as a result was near unbearable.

"I didn't have time, I just-" Arthur began to ramble but Eliza would have none of it.

"You really haven't changed, have you?" she tsked, "Still determined to burn yourself out completely."

Feeling his neck heat up at the comment, Arthur couldn't deny it, nor could he think of what to say next, sipping his drink as a sudden awkwardness began to consume him.

"You should come travelling with me," the worldlier of them suggested in a heat of the moment way.

Assuming the outrageous idea was a joke, the younger man chuckled but, on looking at his friend's serious expression, he shook his head. "I'd love to, but I have work and I can't just up and leave Francis and the boys for who knows how long you'll want to go for," he rejected the offer.

"Why not? The twins aren't babies anymore, they don't even live with you, and Francis can come too if he wants," she paused long enough for the other to open his mouth, about to rebuttal but she wouldn't allow him to, mind set on convincing him. "Plus, finances can't be a problem for you anymore, not since you moved," realising she may have taken it too far with her last point, she added a thoughtful, "I'm sorry about that, by the way."

Shrugging to show no offense was taken, Arthur didn't speak but the look in his meadow green eyes showed he was considering what was being said as he chewed his lower lip in deliberation.

"Come on, Arthur, you've worked in that office for four years without so much as a long weekend off, just take a break," she pleaded, genuine concern for his health evident.

Knowing all too well the pit falls of making drunken plans, the Englishman wouldn't allow himself to agree to anything, although, he was near inescapably tempted. He had always wanted to travel but hadn't made it further than a half week trip to Calais with Francis for their fifth anniversary. The thought of it saddened him, so many beautiful things out there that were fading fast and, if he kept procrastinating, he may never get to experience them.

Still, he refused to commit to anything without further discussion. "I'll think about it," he compromised, meaning it fully.

Pleased by this, the fairer of the couple smiled and let her head rest on the other's shoulder, having to bend slightly as they were practically the same height. "Good enough," she settled.

"I hope I have not stumbled upon something I was not meant to see," came the lilting French accent of the man who floated from the house.

"Is that what you think of me?" the older woman was quick with her retort, mock offense in her voice, "Not to say I couldn't have him if I wanted him."

Running a perfectly manicured finger along the nape of the smaller blonde's neck in a teasingly flirtatious manner that caused him to shudder in spite of himself, she shot Francis a smug grin and a flutter of her lengthy eyelashes to prove her point.

"As irresistible as he is you must contain yourself," sauntering closer, the Frenchman wrapped an arm around his lover's waist, "for I will fight you for him."

Quirking a brow at her pretend romantic rival, Elizabeta was unfazed by the threat. "And you think you'd win?"

Both participants of the two and fro very much enjoying the rich shade of red the silent third party's face had turned over the exchange, Francis, predictably, was the one to take things over the edge with his lude behaviour, as he tightly grasped his partner's backside and growled, "I fight dirty, mon petite."

With a squealed gasp, the assaulted man lurched forward to escape the attack, instinctually glaring back at his assailant, who cackled along with his accomplice.

"Even if you somehow, miraculously, won, I would make you wish you hadn't," Arthur added his most menacing look, however, it appeared that alcohol had dampened its bite as the older man was not in the least bit intimidated.

"Kinky," he purred with a perverted leer.

Biting his tongue, Arthur didn't need to express his contempt as Elizabeta did so for him.

"Please, save it for the bedroom," she beseeched, offering the last of her cigarette to Francis who held a hand up to decline.

"I could not quit twice," he told her, to which she shrugged and flicked the end over the patio railing.

"I'm going inside then. It's fucking freezing out here," she blasphemed, the others following suit as Arthur whistled into the night for Freide to follow them inside, which she gladly did.

The group entered the house, forcing their way past the endless sea of guests and chatting as they went, reaching the hallway where a snow-white head popped out of the kitchen and caught their attention.

"There you guys are, we've been waiting for you," Gilbert complained, "We're about to play never have I ever and you're not escaping."

Pre-emptively worried yet excited looks were shared by the trio at the notion, knowing how it would end but in far too good a spirits not to take part. Following their host into the kitchen where a daunting amount of shot glasses were set out, filled with something clear and, no doubt, strong, they found the rest of their group was still scattered around the kitchen, waiting expectantly for the incriminating game to begin.

"Who's ready to be humiliated?" questioned the boisterous American from his seat on the countertop as they came through.

"I wouldn't start that, amigo," Antonio chastised, "we were there for your Power Rangers phase, remember."

"Pft, that show was awesome, you've got nothing on me," the younger man nonchalantly brushed off.

"And your cowboy obsession," Francis tried to elicit a response from his surrogate brother, to no avail.

"Cowboys are cool, man. I almost came as one tonight," he easily deflected, folding his arms cockily.

"I've got the link to your old blog," Matthew chimed in with the damning fact.

At this, the colour drained from the older twin's face, his eyes widening behind their mismatched frames as he squawked in horror. "What?! You said you never read it! Delete it right now, dude, that's crossing a line!"

The quieter, and secretly more malicious, of them only smiled with a mischievous quirk to his lips as his brother begged.

"Let's just start the game," Alfred scowled.

Time seemed to go by its own rate of passing as the night juddered along, stopping and starting like a faulty reel of film, as excessive intoxicants is wont to make it seem. Remaining isolated from the rest of the party, the old friends enjoyed each other's company in private, as they had all subconsciously hoped they would from the moment they arrived.

Things had started off innocently enough, the standard themes coming up first; plenty of past crushes and escapades to drink over. However, it didn't take long for things to be derailed, devolving into a more risqué line of interrogation, purposefully designed to mortify, not that any of them could feel anything past the point of complete inebriation. Together, they gasped and delighted in admitions they had most likely heard before but never tired in hearing.

"Okay, never have I ever," Antonio narrowed his eyes in thought as he leaned so far down against the fridge in his seated position that he may as well have been lying down, "gone to work commando."

Four out of the seven drunken heaps that littered the kitchen floor lifted their receptacles to take their punishment.

"Now that's just unprofessional," Arthur criticised, although he was not surprised at all.

"Well, I can't have panty lines showing through a cute dress, can I?" Elizabeta stated as though the very idea were unreasonable.

"Dirty girl," Gilbert, one of the culprits, leaned in with a filthy grin.

"At least I have an excuse, pervert, what's yours?" she cut down, firmly moving the pale hand that had been placed on her thigh, yet letting her fingers linger over it.

Shrugging, the German showed no remorse for his actions. "Hadn't done my laundry, what's the big deal?"

"Preach," slurred Alfred from across the room, raising a hand for a disastrous high five.

"I simply enjoy the freedom," Francis shared his own reasoning with a blissful smile, "it is wonderfully liberating."

"This is why no one asks for your opinion, dear," the Frenchman's partner, who had somehow acquired some rather sloppily applied eyeliner, spoke the feelings of the room as they were all forced to mentally picture the image against their will.

"Moving on," Eliza's expression morphed from one of quiet disgust to a vindictive smirk, "Never have I ever seen my brother's porn."

The statement was, not so subtly, aimed at a certain Prussian native, who seemed to experience some form of stress induced flashback at the memory. "Why did you have to bring that up again," he griped, drinking to forget, while both Arthur and Matthew did the same, casting their uncomfortable attention to the relative they had in common.

Face burning up immediately, the American sputtered to his defence, "Well, maybe you shouldn't be going through your brother's stuff," he attempted to scold.

"I'll stop seeing it when you stop leaving tabs open," the older Kirkland rebuked with a nod of agreement from the bespectacled boy beside him, causing the shade of their brother's face to deepen, nearly matching Antonio's costume.

"Never have I ever," Alfred raised his voice slightly, changing the subject with some desperation, "been caught doing the dirty in public."

A few moments silence, in which dubious looks were exchanged, then everyone over the age of twenty took a generous swig of their beverages, the most easily overlooked of the group skilfully waiting until the others were too focused on supressing their gag reflexes to notice him taking his own penalty.

"And you were all so eager to judge me," the only person not partaking directed at no one in particular, somehow even brasher and louder than usual in his current state, those around him only laughing gently at the lightweight.

"There is no judgement here, mon cheri, only open minds," Francis maundered, his well-meant words of inspiration not as coherent as he believed them to be as he struggled up from where he lay, draped across Matthew's lap, ruffling the younger man's honey coloured hair before swaying out of the room.

The game continued between them, but Arthur found his attentions drawn elsewhere, eyes focused on where his lover had just exited. Notoriously an unpredictable drunk, the feelings kicked up by the night surprised even himself as he was struck by a sudden urge, an itch of sorts, for the man he had just watched leave. One that was carnal, driven by hunger. It made him sad, in a way. He missed when that feeling had been brought on through nothing other than physical desire, rather than a despairing need for human contact that he felt he couldn't initiate without severely lowered inhibitions. However, he wasn't about to waste this feeling, that became rarer by the day, by reflecting over what it may mean, instead grasping the moment with lusting ambition.

As discretely as he could, which was not very discrete, he followed in the direction of his other half, unaware of the knowing looks he garnered. Stumbling down the hall, Arthur headed for the bathroom, assuming that was where the other had planned on going. On managing to ascend the stairs to reach the darkened landing, he rapped gently on the wood and waited for an answer to make sure he wasn't about to assault a complete stranger.

Sure enough, it was a slightly impaired French accent that called out, "One moment, s'il vous plait."

Hazily smirking to himself, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, checking the coast was clear of onlookers, then, swiftly, pushed down on the handle to open the door just a crack and slipped through, closing it again behind him.

Inside, a mildly confused Francis regarded the intrusion with the same, unaware smile as he did most things when he'd been drinking. "Bonjour, mon amour," he addressed, "Is there something I can help you with?"

Lips curved upward, a little coyly but with no hint of self-doubt, the drunken brit slinked forward to lean against the sink. He shrugged a shoulder, looking his partner over with predatory eyes.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, out of practice at being the one to provoke this sort of encounter.

"There must be a reason for you to follow me into the bathroom," Francis hummed, knowing full well what was being led up to as he caught the way he was being observed, gazing back with heat, "but what might that be?"

Happy to play along, Arthur bit at the metal through his lip, a slight tilt to his mouth as he smiled lopsidedly.

"I suppose I've just been thinking about when we were younger," he mused in a round about kind of way, letting his head rest at an angle as his eyeline flicked up to meet the other's, "When I used to dress like this unironically," he let out a sighing chuckle, leading on to what he was really thinking about, "and we did stupid shit like snog in bathrooms at parties."

"How strange," Francis spoke in much the same manner as he prowled closer to lay a hand on the smaller man's waist, "I was thinking much the same thing."

Both grinning, amused by their own attempts to be suave, they moved in as one, lips pressing together with rash, liquid passion. The shorter man craned his neck to deepen the kiss, hands reaching up to tangle in golden strands of hair while the taller of them held his lover by the midriff, embrace resting where it felt natural.

Acid green flames danced behind hooded lids as Arthur urged them to grind together in a way that made Francis' breath hitch. Furthering the lecherous affair with the expert use of teeth and tongue, a hand strayed from the silken locks to press against the front of increasingly unwelcomed spandex leggings. Palming the area, Arthur had to supress the smug grin that tickled the edges of his mouth at how the other's eyelids fluttered in a way that was reserved only for him.

The sensation of something cold and solid exploring the inside of his mouth was one that Francis had never quite been at ease with, however, the familiarity of it seemed to transport him almost, as, with his eyes closed, he could have been back in the days when such a feeling wasn't just a relived memory. It was a feeling he wanted, needed to savour.

Staggering backwards quite inelegantly, dragging his compliant lover with him, the backs of his thighs connected with a towel rail, which he used to rest his weight on, allowing said lover a better position to slip a hand under his waistband. A moan escaped him, unable to contain himself, and he moved into the contact, Arthur responding by caressing him in ways he knew would elicit the right reactions. Breaking away from their slovenly entanglement, the, usually, demurer of the two diverted his attention to exposed neck, teeth scraping at the tender skin, to the elation of the man on the receiving end of this treatment.

"I do not know what has gotten into you, mon ange," Francis allowed his head to roll back against the wall while the smaller man's agile fingers wandered, "mais j'aime ça," he finished the thought in his native tongue as he often did when his train of thought was impeded.

"Tu n'es pas le seul à savoir être passionné," the other replied, to his shock and exhilaration, in the same foreign language.

"Your accent is still terrible," he criticised jovially, restraining himself from taking the lead as he was wary of being disappointed again.

"Good," Arthur mumbled against the creamy flesh of his collarbone, "I can't think of anything worse than being mistaken for French."

Their back and forth was promptly interrupted by a knock on the door and both men met eyes with guilty delight, sniggering as they skulked from the bathroom together, paying no attention to the unimpressed glare they received.

Alone on the landing, their kiss resumed briefly before Francis pulled back, glancing to one of the two bedroom doors and raising an eyebrow by way of questioning. Nibbling at his inner cheek, the smile that curled across Arthur's cheeks was answer enough and, pulling him by the wrist into a fast embrace, the taller man swung the door open and propelled them both inside to find the room already occupied.

On the bed, the more dainty of the two atop the other's lap, were the familiar Germanic couple, faces locked together in quite the compromising position, too preoccupied to notice the not at all surprised intruders, who simply exchanged amused looks in the archway and closed the door once more.

Backing out, the pair tried the next room, with caution this time, finding it vacated. They tripped together towards the bed in the centre, Arthur practically collapsing onto his back on reaching it, pulling the larger man down on top of him. He struggled to strip the leather jacket from his torso, but Francis was eager to help with the situation, working together to fling the offending clothing onto the floor with fervent abandon. Sliding both arms below the lithe body under him, the Frenchman relished in the enthusiasm of his partner, the desire, not for sex but, for his adoration to be returned overwhelming.

For the most beautiful few moments it was, the man that lay at his mercy wrapping both arms around his shoulders and arching up into his hold, a leg hooking around his hips so that they melded together with heavy breaths. Shuffling further up the bed, they were too focused on the sounds of their own whispered anticipations to hear the muffled voices outside, along with clumsy footsteps berating the staircase.

"Artie!" came the overzealous screaming of an excitable teenager, followed by softer words of discouragement that went unheeded, "Artie! It's that girl, she texted me! The one from the- Oh sweet Jesus my eyes!"

Their solitude was broken when Alfred barged in, immediately regretting his decision, turning away to shield his sight from the horror, Matthew pulling a face as he muttered, "I told you they were probably…busy."

"Bloody fucking hell, did you never learn to knock!" Arthur scrambled out of his lover's hold, becoming flustered and irate out of embarrassment.

"I have now!" the younger man cried, seemingly scarred by what he had been forced to witness.

"What is all this screaming about?" the other bedroom door was opened and Elizabeta peered out worriedly with Gilbert looking, confusedly, from his seat on the bed, "What girl?"

"Oh God, not you guys too," Alfred groaned.

"You're just jealous," the albino man crowed with a shit eating grin, "Don't worry, buddy, uncle awesome will teach you the way into a fräulein's heart," placing a hand to one side of his mouth, jokingly trying to shield his words, he added, "and other places."

"Please, do not," Arthur was quick to cut in, righting himself and standing, leaving Francis alone on the bed.

"I need another drink," the American lamented, turning back where he had just come from.

"Great idea," Gilbert jumped from the mattress, easily distracted in his high spirits, "and I shall impart onto you my bountiful wisdom in the art of getting some."

The other guilty couple followed the twins downstairs, just Arthur and Francis left alone and, with a sorry smile from the smaller of the two, it became evident that the moment had gone.

With the moon gradually lowering, and after polishing off the rest of the alcohol in the immediate vicinity, the night had reached its natural conclusion. The youngest of the group were the first to leave, the full effort of both Matthew and Arthur being needed to force a barely conscious Alfred into the back of a cab, then Antonio, who wandered off into the darkness of the night before anyone had time to stop him. He had always had a habit of being the one to get lost on nights out. Shortly after, the remaining couple said their goodbyes and Francis dragged Arthur away from the corner he and Freide had been cuddling in.

Still decidedly dark outside, the two of them ambled down the road, their laughter ringing throughout the empty air, arms around one another for support. The first bird calls of morning began to sound from the chimney tops, but none left the safety of their roosts just yet, still too early for them to begin their days.

Turning the final corner of their rout, they made it the final few metres to their humble abode, the lightest harmony of rain picking up around them as they came down the driveway. They spilled into the hallway, Arthur taking great pains to close the door as silently as he could, as though afraid of waking his parents, with hushed giggles. Leaning against the wall for support he attempted to untie the laces of his boots in the most inefficient way imaginable, to the infinite amusement of his other half.

"Amour, you are a state," he chuckled, in no position to judge.

"Says the one pissed off wine," Arthur scoffed.

The other made a vaguely dismissive hand gesture and stumbled into the living room, slumping down into the armchair closest to the door. His ears ringing, the Frenchman let his eyes slip closed to stop the room from dancing around him and could have drifted off right there had two arms not been draped over his shoulders, hands resting on his chest.

"Don't go falling asleep down here, pet. You'll regret it."

While such affection would have seemed out of place to Francis had he been sober, he allowed himself a tender smile, laying his own hands over Arthur's. They were cold and wet.

"Your concern is touching," it may have sounded sarcastic, but he meant it.

After letting his hands be warmed for a moment, Arthur pulled away. "Don't be too charmed, I'm just warning you because you'll get no sympathy from me."

Francis heard the shuffle of footsteps move around him then a warm body was pressed against his leg, prompting him to open his eyes to look down as Arthur laid his head in his lap. His heart aching at the gesture he instinctively raised a hand to gently comb his fingers through the wheat field coloured strands, separating them out and letting them fall back in line again. He had forgotten how soft Arthur's hair was.

"Arthur," he spoke, a knot in his throat as a sense of longing, not the same burning need as earlier but one that started as a dull, pained sensation low in his stomach that clawed its way up and made itself known.

The man in question hummed to show he was listening despite his eyes being closed.

Francis watched him, lips hanging apart, as though a shadow lay across his legs. His fingers threaded themselves through phantom locks that crumbled away like dust, the body that they grew from translucent, frail. He lived with a ghost that didn't know they were dead, the memories attached to them the only thing keeping them human. Now and then they may have come close, so agonizingly close, to how things were meant to be, but Francis couldn't live on a flimsy promise.

He knew he had to say something, he should have done weeks ago, but it was the hope of moments like this, a saccharine semblance of their relationship, that made it impossible. Brief gestures that were just frequent enough to keep him addicted, waiting for the next one, and able to fool himself into thinking that, perhaps, there was nothing wrong after all.

"We should go to bed."

The shoulders that used his leg for support rose and fell in a deep sigh, then pulled away, the sandy mop lifting from his lap.

"Yeah," Arthur stared through him with a farced upturn of his lips, stretching his limbs as he stood.

Staring back, Francis didn't move, sickened by his thoughts.

The other turned his skeletal frame and drifted into the darkness of the hall, stairs barely noticing his weight as he ascended.

With a deeply shaken exhale, the older man followed when all sounds of movement had stopped. Reaching the bedroom, already dark, the form under the covers didn't shift as he came in and he assumed Arthur had fallen asleep. A little relieved by this, he tripped to the bed, stripping as he went.

Sat with his legs overhanging the edge of the mattress, he left his clothes where they fell, along with Arthur's and the suit he had seen him leave for work in that morning. An unexpected breeze blew over his shoulder blades and he turned to notice the opened window, left ajar by his partner so that he could listen to the rain that had already stopped.

Easing himself down, Francis let the chill numb him as his lover lay empty at his side.

* * *

It wasn't until the sun had reached its highest point in the sky that Arthur woke the next day, forcing his eyelids apart the tiniest sliver, face smothered into his pillow which was covered in makeup that he didn't remember putting on. The anticipated repercussions of the night before were unmerciful as pain seared down the centre of his skull and a sickness weighed his insides down, making him afraid to move.

Writing the day off completely, he began to feel himself fade back into unconsciousness just as the muffled scrape of socks on carpet entered the room. Something hard was placed on his bedside table and hand swept his cheek.

"Are you awake, cheri?" the owner of the footsteps whispered, too quietly to wake someone who was sleeping.

A grunt of recognition came from the mass in the bed, brow twitching slightly.

Receiving more of a response than he had expected, Francis kept his tone low as he knelt beside his partner. "Tony and Gilbert are at the restaurant, I am going to meet them," he informed, "I assume you are staying here."

Another unintelligible moan made evident that the smaller man wouldn't be accompanying him, as though his appearance wasn't enough to tell him this.

"I made you tea," the Frenchman left a sweet peck on the other's pallid cheek and left him to his private misery.

The scent of rich, strong coffee was engrained into every crevice of the lifeless restaurant, a heavenly aroma to Francis' hangover induced, blocked sinuses. Dragging his feet over to the tapas bar where the other two victims of the night before loitered, looking quite worse for ware, he pulled out a stool, wincing at the screeching sound it made on the tiled floor.

"Coffee?" the owner of the establishment offered.

Nodding wordlessly in return, a cup was filled with the scalding liquid and nudged towards him, steam caressing his stubbled cheeks.

"Anything else?" Antonio went into service mode, "I asked Lovi to come in to clean up a bit, I could get him to make us some Huevos Rotos, if you're hungry."

"Like fuck, I will," came the loud protests of an angry Italian from the kitchen.

"Would you keep it down, you little scheisse," Gilbert raised his head from his folded arm pillow to weakly snap.

"It's not my problem that you idiots can't handle your drink," the foul tempered brunette appeared at the window, "And why wasn't I invited, asshole."

"You were," the German deadpanned.

"Whatever, it was probably sad with all of you old people around anyway," Lovino insulted with a shrug, disappearing into the back again.

Head flopping back onto the counter surface with an antagonised groan, Gilbert proceeded to grumble in his native language, pulling his hood down over his bloodshot eyes.

"I am not hungry, thank you," Francis answered the earlier question, eyes fixed on the cup he held in both hands.

Tilting his head to the side, Antonio took note of the sombre mood of his companion. "You okay there, amigo?"

A limp smile twisted the Frenchman's mouth and he glanced up briefly. "I am alright," he sighed, clearly lying.

"You sure? You look pretty down," the Spaniard observed the other's unwashed hair and darkened eye bags, "I mean, not as bad as Gil, but still not so great."

His attempt to lighten his friend's spirits worked only mildly as a small exhale, meant to be a laugh, came from his hunched body.

"Hey, fuck you, man. I would have been fine if you hadn't brought that Mexican devil's water," was Gilbert's muffled retaliation.

"I am alright, just tired. I did not get the best sleep last night," Francis couldn't find it in himself to force a smile at the attempts to cheer him up, still transfixed by the blackness in his cup.

A lude chuckle came from the oldest of the trio as he lifted his head once more to smirk at the others. "I'll bet," his tone held a suggestive inflection and he reached to his side to produce his evidence, "Arthur left this in the spare bedroom, by the way."

Placing the leather jacket on the counter, his crude implications were met with an unnaturally subdued reaction from the man they were directed at.

"Alright, you've either got to tell us what's up with the attitude or stop it right now because you're depressing us both," Gilbert light heartedly addressed the usually positive man's gloomy disposition, "You're turning into eyebrows."

At the last comment the Frenchman's lips twitched, just slightly, in a way that his companions had only witnessed a handful of times, his head bowing slightly as he tried his best to conceal his expression.

"Francis," Antonio frowned, his voice becoming abnormally low and serious as he sensed something deeply wrong, "What's the matter?"

Remaining quiet as his friend's looks became increasingly worried, Francis seemed to find it difficult translating his thoughts into words, considering how best to say what he was thinking before eventually looking up to make eye contact with the other men, distress in his face.

"I think something is wrong with Arthur," he stated reluctantly, gaze dropping again, to stare with wide anxious eyes, into his coffee.

Unsure of what exactly he meant by this, the others exchanged looks with one another before focusing on their friend.

"How do you mean?" Gilbert prompted him to clarify.

An unfathomable sigh flowed from the despairing man, as he ran a delicate finger around the rim of his cup.

"I do not know, he is…he has been acting strangely and…I am worried," his disjointed elaboration wasn't much help, but Francis found he was unable to explain what he, himself, didn't understand.

"Like…he is doing weird stuff?" Antonio tried to understand but still held a blank expression.

Shaking his head, the Frenchman swallowed back a frustrated sadness, blinking hard. "He is just not himself," he paused, opening and closing his mouth several times, at a loss, "I do not know what to do about it."

"Can't you ask him?" the older man felt slightly bad for pointing out the obvious but had no other advice to offer.

His suggestion was met with a joyless laugh. "Have you met Arthur?" Francis abjectly questioned.

"Well, if there's one thing I know about that stubborn old teabag, it's that you have to be direct," Gilbert reasoned with a pitying look, adding a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "Sorry bud, but I don't think there's any other way."

"I know," the other accepted longanimously.

"It can't be that hard, Francis. I mean, you've been together eight years now, right? It's not like you've got any boundaries left," Antonio weighed in to encourage.

"Right," was all Francis said, smiling sadly for the sake of those around him, feeling more hopeless about the situation with each second that passed.

The group stayed an hour or so, discussing the night at length, Gilbert refusing to acknowledge what had happened with a certain woman, claiming it was 'complicated', to the other's disappointment, and helping one another to recall the lost details. With promises of not to leave it so long to the next time they all saw each other, the two men that didn't work at the establishment left Antonio to finish cleaning the kitchen with the short-tempered Italian and left in opposite directions. It was already getting dark outside, as the sun set earlier with each passing day, and, by the time Francis got home, the sky was a solid, inky slab.

Pausing outside the front door, for the first time in his life, he truly dreaded the sight of the man he loved. He came into the hallway, finding Arthur in the living room, a glazed over look to his eyes as he turned to give a tight smile of acknowledgement. There was a sadness to the atmosphere that only Francis noticed, and he didn't try to sound cheerful when he spoke.

"I am going to make something to eat," he mentioned.

"I'm not hungry," the other declined, as was expected, and so the older man cooked for himself, eating alone at the counter.

By the time he had finished, he found the front room void of life, the only other person in the house having retreated upstairs, back to bed.

Left in the solitude of his thoughts, Francis had nothing left to grieve. The thing he feared losing the most was slipping away, whether his fault or not, and all he could do was attempt to prevent the damage from worsening. Resisting the urge to scare himself by overthinking the hypothetical, he resolved to do what was necessary.

* * *

Having woken that morning still with the lingering sluggishness of a hangover, Arthur had been even more disinclined to go into work than usual but still had done, remaining mostly undisturbed for the entirety of the day, while Francis had stayed home to do some editing. Despite this, however, the Englishman strangely received no greeting on his arrival.

A wedge of light spilling from the kitchen flooded the hall and, a little off set by the complete silence of the house, Arthur poked his head around the doorway to find his significant other sat at the dinner table, posture sterile, eyes filled with apprehension. Meeting his gaze instantly, a languid nausea settled over both men at what was going to come next.

"We need to talk."

The older man spoke in his gentlest tone yet, the sentence still aroused trepidation on the face of the other.

"Is everything alright?" Arthur ventured slowly, taking a seat opposite his boyfriend.

Pressing his lips against his clasped hands for a few seconds as he planned his next thoughts carefully, the Frenchman breathed in deep through his nostrils, closing his eyes, before opening them again to latch onto the troubled green ones that watched him, expectantly, with as much composure as he could find.

"We need to talk about you," he continued, ignoring the query, "and your…current behaviour."

Silence, tenser for Francis than for the man he questioned, as Arthur processed what was being said.

"My behaviour? What…do you mean?"

Taking his ques from the younger man's reactions, Francis placed both hands flat on the table, his voice taking on a soft bluntness.

"You are scaring me, Arthur. I am very concerned."

Recognition of what the other spoke about immediately registered on Arthur's face, a flicker of something akin to panic passing behind his eyes as he parted his lips to speak.

"Please, do not try to tell me you do not know what I am talking about," Francis asked that his intelligence not be insulted, keeping their eyes loosely locked.

A taut expulsion of air escaped Arthur's lungs in a horrendously faked laugh. "Well, there's no need for an interrogation. You know if there was something wrong you'd be the first person I'd come to."

They both knew he was lying.

"You would not come to anyone, cherie," Francis calmly contended.

Expression becoming visibly guarded, the Englishman's voice took on a defensive edge as he found himself backed into an argumental corner. "What's so wrong with my current behaviour then? No one else seems to have a problem with it," he almost challenged, hostility in his stare, but Francis wouldn't be discouraged.

"This is exactly what I mean, Arthur. You are being so aggressive, so easily provoked," he watched as his partner became increasingly rigid at his accusations, "At least part of the time I see you this way but more often you seem…sad," Francis sighed and reached across the table to place an empathetic hand atop his lover's, "You go to work, you come home and you barely say a word about any of it. You show no joy in anything you do. It is sad to see, mon cher, it hurts me, and I only want you to be happy. Please, I want to help."

Blue eyes pleaded across the wooden divider, every word meant with sincerity, and were met with a face that remained unchanged.

Looking down at their joined hands, Arthur narrowed his gaze and pulled his own away. "That would be because I am behaving like an adult, Francis," he spoke sharply with venom in his words, "I go to work, and I come home and, no, I don't particularly enjoy it but there's no one else to pay the bills for us, is there?"

The bite of malice was palpable, and Francis almost recoiled from the sting of it. He had hoped that the conversation wouldn't have to end in an argument, but the chances of that had always been slim.

"But I enjoy my work," he attempted to explain his perspective, "I do it with pride and happiness. You, you are just-"

"I'm just what!"

Arthur had snapped. Like a hare in the field, he could only stand still and hope to be overlooked for so long before he was forced to react, fear causing him to lash out.

"What am I just, Francis! Just another productive member of society?" he stood, forcing his hands down on the table, glare unyielding.

"Arthur-"

"No!" Arthur raised his voice as though he hoped the volume may drown out his own raging insecurities, "There is nothing wrong with me! This is life, and this is how we live it! I may see things differently to you but that doesn't make me wrong!"

With this, he turned and left the room, slamming the front door as he escaped the house completely.

Admittedly shaken by the brutality of events, it took a minute for the man left behind to react, quickly rising to follow the other, unsure of what he was planning on doing alone in such a volatile state. Flinging open the front door, Francis hurried into the dark, prepared to search every inch of the empty night, but found he didn't need to as he was halted by the sound of uninhibited weeping coming from the man that sat huddled against the wall. Bony shoulders heaving with heart wrenching cries, Arthur stared blankly ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Francis, I'm s-so sorry," he choked, words filled with such remorse and shame he could have been apologising for all of humanity, "I can't do t-this anymore."

Chest aching, weighed down with the sight of such sorrow, Francis knelt beside him, taking the stained face in his hands to look between its glassy eyes.

"Why are you sorry, my love? Speak to me," he implored softly, anxiety rising in him at what the answer may be.

"I don't know," the smaller man's breath came in sharp gasps as he whispered the truth, finding no relief in it.

Studying the pitiful face a moment longer, Francis pulled the shaking body into his warm embrace, rubbing calming circles on the other's back as he murmured sweet, bilingual comforts.

"C'est bon, Arthur, mon lapin, you have nothing to be sorry for."

Trembling fingers clutched at the material of his, now dampened, shirt, flaxen head pressed into the crook of his neck.

"I miss mum, I miss h-her so much."

"I know, amour," Francis gently hushed, feeling the prick of moisture in his own eyes as he held onto the man in his arms, so fragile, lost. Defeated by a world that insisted on being so unkind.

Months, perhaps years, of feeling poured from the broken from, like his body contained a thousand times its worth in raw pain, stored for longer than Arthur cared to reflect on, and, no matter how hard he forced it from his ragged throat, there was still more. Clinging to his human shield, he found himself unable to stop. Head too clouded to know the specifics of what he was crying for, it was as though something had shifted. The cracks were repairable, but what had been set free could never be crammed back in, meaning it would have to be dealt with and the thought of this terrified him.

Too consumed by his own worries, Arthur didn't notice he had been coerced inside onto the sofa, Francis' protective arms still enveloping him.

"Je vous ai maintenant," the Frenchman crooned, leaning back, the delicate body that rested upon him clasped safely in his hold, legs entangled, frenzied heartbeat slowing against him, "Whatever it may be, we will fix it. You must not worry, anymore."

As stuttering breaths became, gradually, less erratic and wet sobs petered away, Francis refused to part even slightly, hugging him close as much for his own solace as Arthur's, burying his face in the sweet scent of his frowzy hair. Neither moved, sadly tranquil in that frozen moment, melting into one another.

"Je t'aime," Francis barely uttered, lips dusting the head that lay tenderly beside his own.

"I love you too," Arthur's cracked voice completed the sentiment.

The feeling of catharsis was to be short lived as Arthur knew, come the morning, he would be forced to face what he had rejected for far too long. However, with the inability to go back, he surrendered himself to the fact, finding a minimal sense of reassurance in this.

* * *

Translations

Mais j'aime ça – But I love it

Tu n'es pas le seul à savoir être passionné – You are not the only one that knows how to be passionate (yes Arthur said that line)

C'est bon – It's alright

Je vous ai maintenant – I have you now

Disclaimer - The glasses thing wasn't an original idea, I saw it on a Tumblr post a long time ago (you've probably seen it too) so credit to that person whoever they are, sorry I don't have the name.

Please Read

Just a note but, I do care about this story a great deal, that's why I've tried to make it more serious, and it wasn't doing so well on views until recently which was kind of disappointing. However, some very kind people have left some lovely reviews as of late and it really does make me feel good about my writing so thank you to all of you who have favourited, reviewed, followed or even just read because I do try very hard. Updates will be monthly from now on so that I can keep to a reasonable schedule and your patience is much appreciated. Thanks again.


	6. Chapter 6

Notes and translations below

* * *

The night was long, both men remaining awake to experience the first inklings of the matutine haze that signalled the nearing day but still found themselves woken by a shrill, electronic scream not long after.

Head jolting up with a sputtered grunt, Francis squinted with sleep blurred eyes to see where the offending noise came from, mindful not to disturb the man that lay dozing on his chest. However, the yellow mop began to shift, roused by the heinous sound, and cracked open its tired lids. With a deep exhale, Arthur reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his phone, turning off the alarm and staring at the screen with an unreadable expression for a while before slowly sitting up.

"What are you doing?" Francis questioned, only semi-conscious, as he felt the smaller man try to climb over him.

"I've got to get ready for work," Arthur replied huskily.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa, the Englishman felt a hand lightly grip his elbow and glanced over his shoulder where a look of concern waited for him.

"Arthur," Francis propped himself up on one arm, his voice low and tinged with worry, "Do you not think that, maybe, you should take the day off?"

"Why would I do that?" Arthur countered through a stifled yawn.

"Because I asked you to?" the other answered, gently attempting to persuade him.

For a second time, a shrieking came from the hand-held device and Arthur shut it off immediately.

"I have to go, I don't want to be late," he went to stand but the hand that held him stopped him from doing so, the softest pull keeping him in place as his exhausted body was unable to protest.

"Amour, please," his sweetened tone carried the slightest hint of sternness, "I think you need to take some time off."

Keeping his focus on the fractured, glass screen in his hands, there was a lack of conviction in Arthur's words as he spoke. "I don't need time off. It's not like I'm sick or anything," he excused, weakly.

The hold on his arm loosened, trailing downward like the touch of a feather to rest on his wrist, warm and tender.

"I would not say you are exactly well, though," Francis reasoned carefully.

Biting at his lower lip, the Englishman said nothing, knowing his partner was right yet not willing to accept what was said. Tempted by the heat of human contact, he stared straight ahead, the sound of his third back up alarm slicing through the peaceful morning.

"Come here," a whispered voice murmured close to his ear, the hand that was close to his own taking the phone from his grasp to end the final alarm then pulling him back into an embrace.

Allowing himself to be eased down without argument, Arthur relaxed, aching muscles liquidizing, damp breath heating the back of his neck. With two arms locked around his waist and residual sleep half obscuring his mind, it didn't take long for his body to give in and shut down once more.

Awakening of his own accord at a more reasonable hour some time later, the larger man was able to easily roll the smaller form from his hold without disrupting him, covering his sleeping partner with a blanket and leaving him to rest for a while longer. He went about his day, sitting in the kitchen editing some of his latest work and occasionally peering into the living room to check on the other who still hadn't stirred.

Distracted by what had happened the previous night, he found himself unable to concentrate on the task at hand, his thoughts all too easily drifting to the man across the hall. If anything, the whole situation had just become more unclear, with complexities he hadn't expected coming to light.

Combing both hands through his hair, still wet from the shower, he let his head flop forward as he expelled a strained breath. Sight fixed on the grain of the wooden table, he heard a shuffling to the right of him and the man he burdened himself over came into his peripheries.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep so late," the dishevelled man grumbled, rubbing at his reddened eyes with the heel of his palm, "I still have to call the office, they'll be wondering where I am."

A thin smile curled Francis' mouth at his lover's skewed priorities. Always the worrier, he thought. If only he would turn some of that energy onto himself.

"You looked too peaceful to disturb. Besides, I am sure they have worked out you will not be turning up by now," he brushed off the petty concerns.

A sigh drained from the body that darkened the archway, a sound that didn't represent any particular emotion, like a dog's sigh, as he scratched at his neck with bitten nails. He took a swaying step back, about to disappear upstairs, but Francis prevented him with a vague verbal que to halt and a beckoning hand.

Obeying the unspoken command, Arthur returned to the room, lingering against the doorframe with a blank look on his face.

"I still do not have any answers, cherie," the Frenchman reminded him of the night before as gently as he could, imploring with his eyes.

Another deep inhale that was let out just as listlessly, as Arthur rested his head against the wooden boarder like he couldn't support it. "Neither do I," he admitted.

Although not a productive answer, it was honest, and he was no longer deflecting, which was an improvement.

"I am sorry if you felt like you were under attack last night. I only meant to help you," Francis tried a different approach, wanting to keep their line of communication open even if there was nothing to communicate.

A light simper graced the other's face as he peeled away from the wall, dragging his feet over to the chair nearest Francis where he sat with his body facing him. "I know, I just…" he paused, eyeline dropping as he organised his words then looking up to meet his partner's, "I don't know what it is I need help with."

"Then, perhaps, we could take you to someone who can tell us what that is?" the older man tentatively suggested, almost wincing.

"I'm not going to any doctors, if that's what you mean," Arthur caught onto the hint immediately and, predictably, rejected it, "All I need is some time to figure things out and I'll be fine."

Unconvinced but willing to see how things played out before pushing any ideas, Francis nodded in agreement, returning a smile.

Both looking away in a moment of shared quiet, the older man reached over the table, his fingertips scarcely brushing the other's clammy skin.

"Why did you not say something sooner?" he fondly bemoaned, giving the icy appendages a comforting squeeze.

Arthur looked down at the contact, shaking his head. "I suppose I thought ignoring it might make it go away," he sheepishly acknowledged his flawed reasoning, "or it stopped me from having to deal with it, at least."

It was rare that such thoughts made it to being heard and, as awful as it sounded, Francis was, in a way, pleased that he was the one that was allowed to hear it. Of course, he didn't want someone he cared about to feel that way, but it was almost like, now that he had been let in on the secret, he was on Arthur's team, no longer fighting against him to help but at his side, facing adversity as a comrade. He was trusted.

"We are here for you, lapin," he assured, eager to show Arthur he was being heard, "Whatever happens."

Quickly becoming squeamish under the look of pure love he was being sent, the younger man gave another terse upturn of his lips and stood to leave, the couple's hands remaining joined until out of reach of one another.

Knees clicking painfully on his way up the stairs, a strange light headedness left him seeing a multitude of furry, black spots and, by the time he had reached the top, he had to stop and regain himself before faltering into the bathroom.

Peeling his shirt from his chest, sticky with dried night sweat, and dropping it to the floor, Arthur turned on the shower and let it run a while to warm up. He took longer under the heated stream than normal, as he had the liberty of time to do so and exited feeling cleaner than he had in a long time, even making the effort to shave the little patch of peach fuzz on his chin that had become too unruly for his liking.

In the bedroom, he threw on what was first to hand, neglecting to neaten his hair, and picked up the book that had been left, unopened, on his dresser for the last few weeks, taking it back downstairs with him. Glancing into the kitchen on his way to the living room, gaze subtly hanging on the man who sat there, fixated on his computer screen, he took his regular seat on the sofa, relaxing into the cushions.

The paperback falling open to where he had left off last with ease thanks to the bookmark that hid between the pages, he focused on the first sentence, running the words over in his mind. It took several attempts for him to realise he could remember none of the story before that point, having not touched the book in so long. Flicking back a couple of chapters, he tried again but the words were unfamiliar still. A few more chapters backtracking and the same, frustrating result.

Pursing his lips in irritation, he considered simply starting over but, recalling that the story had been so uninteresting that he had stopped reading it in the first place, felt his sense of dedication dissipate at the thought and laid the uninspiring material to the side. Still feeling the itch to keep his brain occupied rather than staring at some form of screen for the whole day, Arthur pulled himself to the well-stocked bookshelf under the stairs and browsed the creased spines with blurred, mossy eyes, hoping one would catch his interest. Familiar titles and authors didn't do much for him but, after some half-minded consideration, he reached for a novel he had already enjoyed several times over, choosing it for this reason. However, the reliable old plot seemed thinner than before, the characters flat and even the scenes that played like a film in his head had lost their vibrancy, although he couldn't really blame the book for that. Vision glazed and fixed on the last page of the chapter he had just finished, disappointment sunk in his ribcage.

"I hope you do not mind some company," Francis smiled warmly as he came through carrying two steaming mugs and a magazine wedged under his arm.

Lips tilting faintly upward in return as he glanced at the cheerful face, Arthur felt the seat beside him dip as the other sat, daintily crossing his legs, and unfurled his own reading material. Not wanting to break the tranquillity, Arthur continued to stare at the page, reading the same lines over and over while his partner flicked through pages of trashy gossip columns next to him.

After a while, the older man looked at his watch then made a quiet sound of effort as he stood. "I should be done in a few hours," he mentioned, holding out the magazine with the page turned to the crossword section for Arthur to occupy himself with.

Nodding, he took it and watched his other half return to the kitchen before putting it to one side, knowing there was no way he could attempt the puzzle. He took a sip of the tea he had forgotten was there and found it disgustingly room temperature, prompting him to wonder how long he had been sat there. By the length of the shadows that crept across the carpet, he could tell at least several hours had been wasted.

Somehow, a full day of doing absolutely nothing had managed to drain him of energy, not that he had woken with that much to spare. Checking his phone, he found less emails than he had expected, and was unsure of how to feel about this. Either no one at the office had noticed his absence, which was a little depressing considering how unlike him this was, or no one cared that he wasn't there, which was also depressing but in a slightly altered sense. Then again, had they noticed he most likely would have been in some sort of trouble, so at least that was avoided.

Leaning back into the sofa cushions, he screwed his eyes shut, head falling back. Too aware of the silence around him, he switched on the TV for background distraction while he sent off vaguely apologetic replies to people who clearly didn't expect much from him. Slumping down further into his plush seat, he let the screen switch itself off as no new messages came through, cementing of how little importance he was to his colleagues.

As the sun lazily sagged below the rooftops, a muted orangish horizon peeking between the low brick walls, Arthur found himself sinking lower still, the muscles in his body deciding of their own accord that they no longer wished to hold him up.

It seemed it took only minutes for the whole house to be plunged into darkness. Sounds of metallic clattering struck up in the kitchen, signifying the second occupant of the house had begun work on that night's culinary efforts and, shortly after, an aroma to further prove this wafted across the hall, followed by the man himself.

Perching on the arm of the sofa where the smaller man resided, he stretched out a hand to absentmindedly trail his fingers through the sandy mane.

"It is getting long, I will have to cut it for you soon," he crooned, "Unless you wish to grow it again, which I would advise against, in my humble opinion."

He gave a subdued laugh at the memory of Arthur's long hair faze while the other remained silent, seemingly not quite catching the joke.

"Sure," he muttered, having not made sense of a word.

A frown creased the older man's forehead and his lips moved once more, the sounds barred from reaching Arthur's ears by some invisible barrier, however, he nodded along nonetheless, hoping it was the right response.

Evidently, it was as Francis stood and went back to the kitchen, sending a look over his shoulder to which Arthur forged a tight-mouthed smile in reply.

Soon, he was called to join his partner in the other room where a plate waited for him, filled with something that looked and smelled, admittedly, very impressive. Yet, his senses had deceived him as, upon taking a bite, the food turned to damp ashes, crumbling and sticking to his teeth. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth in an attempt to dislodge the sodden clumps but only managed to spread the taste of decay.

"You have been quiet today," Francis noted in a purely observational manner as he ate from his own plate like a normal person.

"Sorry," Arthur apologised instinctually, "I would ask you how your day was but if anything out of the ordinary had happened I think I'd have been the first to know."

A chuckle emitted the other despite him not having meant it as a joke. "That is true, cherie," the older man's lips curved upward, and he carried on conversationally, "So, what did your office say when you were not there?"

"They didn't seem to mind," admitted the younger of the two, "I suppose I could take a day or two off."

"I think that is most wise of you," commended Francis with a nod.

Bobbing his head to signal agreement, Arthur forced in another mouthful and swallowed without chewing. Thankfully, the man across from him didn't catch the grimace on his face as it slithered down the walls of his throat.

"I must go to the studio tomorrow, so you have the house to yourself," he added on from the last thought.

Again, the smaller man communicated non-verbally with vague gestures and sounds while a majority of his attention was spent on strenuously gulping back the food that refused to stay down.

Taking large bites so that the act of eating could end sooner, Arthur finished a majority of what was on his plate, pushing the rest around disinterestedly with his fork until his partner had finished. He waited until Francis had placed his silverware together over his empty plate to get up from the table, reaching over to take the utensils to the sink.

"That is alright, I will clean up, you go and relax," the Frenchman stopped him, expertly balancing the china along his arm before Arthur had a chance to take it.

Retracting his outstretched hand, he glanced in the other's direction briefly then drifted back to the room he seemed to use only for wasting time. He sat awkwardly, not quite able to get comfortable for some reason, feeling rather useless having not been allowed to fulfil his one task of the day.

The daily news report threw grainy images at him as he curled in on himself, drawing his legs up onto the sofa, the sad state of affairs that was the current economy doing little to help him 'relax' as Francis had suggested he should. With the world the way it was, Arthur genuinely couldn't understand why everyone wasn't as nihilistic as himself. Perhaps they were, and they just hid it better.

He changed the channel as another article about some new government cutback came on, unable to take the doom and gloom any longer, just in time for his partner to walk in.

"There are plenty of leftovers for you to have tomorrow," he not so subtly hinted.

"Thanks," Arthur replied, moving his phone from the seat beside him so that Francis could sit there.

"And you will be alright here by yourself?" the older of the two voiced his concerns as naturally as he could.

"Of course," Arthur knitted his brow at the query, looking over to the other who held an expression of poorly masked worry.

"I will be out all day, but you can call me any time, if you need to," Francis offered with a shrug, neglecting to look his partner directly in the eye.

Watching him in profile, the younger man let out a quiet sigh. "Please don't worry about me, Francis," he implored, "It won't help anyone."

The other's lips twitched, becoming a tight line as his gaze flicked over, quickly falling to his lap once it met Arthur's. "I will always worry about you," he confessed, affectionately.

Though a sweet thing to say, Arthur couldn't control the sinking sensation of guilt he felt at being a cause of stress to someone. He knew it wasn't meant like that but to worry about someone was not pleasant and to think a person was agonizing over him like that after he had tried, for so long, to not be a bother left a knot in his throat.

"I'll be fine," he assured, "It's just a normal day."

Being looked at the way he was made him uneasy as Francis' gaze rested upon him so softly it was like he was afraid of breaking him. However, he was spared its scrutiny as the Frenchman inhaled deeply with a nod, as he appeared to allow him the benefit of the doubt and shuffled closer. Laying his head on the smaller man's shoulder, he curled up at his side and unintentionally let slip a low hum. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at this, knowing it was an accidental sound of satisfaction, like a cat's purr.

"Quelle?" Francis asked in the same rumbling whisper as he let his eyelids droop.

"Nothing," Arthur replied, shifting so that he could lay an arm along the back of the sofa, the other's head moving to his chest.

Fine, flaxen hairs tickling his chin, Arthur tried to give himself over to the moment but that mental wall prevented him still, separating his sense of enjoyment from the things that he usually enjoyed, like they were incompatible from one another. While he felt the heat of the other's body, could hear his breath passing his lips, in his mind there was nothing to link these simple acts with any form of happiness.

He wouldn't express these feelings, though, knowing how it would sound if he tried to explain it and not in the mood to try. Instead he stayed quiet, letting himself be used as a chair, the most functional he had been all day, until lethargy weighed too heavily upon both of them.

"I will try my best not to wake you in the morning," Francis promised as they slid into bed together.

Turning off the lamp that lit the room, another light still glowed as Arthur caught himself setting his alarm for the next morning out of habit.

"That's alright, I don't want to sleep in too late anyway," he mumbled, turning his phone fully off for the first time in weeks.

He could feel the other close behind him and an arm found its way around his waist, gently pulling him down below the covers. "Well, you are taking some time to yourself, so you can do as you please but at least try to take it easy," Francis doted as he engulfed the both of them in the plush duvet.

"I will," Arthur affirmed, torn between feeling patronised and touched by his partner's well-meant reminders.

* * *

As quiet as he tried to be, Francis was not the most graceful person first thing in the morning and so Arthur found himself woken by a crash as the other knocked everything from his bedside table to the floor while trying to silence his alarm.

"Have a good day," his voice cracked above the hushed cursing of the man that still struggled with the device.

Eventually getting the noise to stop, after more agony than it should have required, a smile softened the older man's face and he leant over to leave a butterfly kiss on his lover's uncovered shoulder, before leaving him to enjoy their bed in solitude.

Being the one left behind didn't do much to help those feelings of uselessness go away and, as embarrassing as it was to admit to himself, Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to be alone. There was something about the thought of spending another day like he had yesterday that seemed so much worse when there was no one else around. But, he had promised Francis he would try to relax and, with the sweet caress of sleep coercing his eyelids closed, he found these worries soon gone from his mind as blank unconsciousness took over without a fight.

His sleep was dreamless, as it usually was these days, his brain too numbed to come up with anything, and, for a while, he hovered in the space between senselessness and waking, where everything is blurred and confused. Every time he felt himself surfacing from that deep, dark pool, something below its surface caught him by the ankles and dragged him back down. Time seemed to race by in between his conscious moments as, each time his eyes were open, the sliver of light that seeped between the curtains had travelled further across the room, eventually reaching the point that it struck him directly in the eyeball.

Searing white light scorching his cornea, Arthur sluggishly raised a hand to shield his vision, squinting at its brightness. He rolled over to avoid it and, on doing so, caught a glimpse of the time from the clock on the other side of the bed. To his surprise, he found it was nearly midday, and, despite having been in bed for almost twelve hours, he found himself thoroughly debilitated. Moving his arm to rub the sleep from his eyes took more effort than it should, and the limb was heavy like dead weight. Even blinking was a chore, his eyelids sticking together, willing him to fall back into that unfeeling state.

While his body itself seemed to be convincing him to stay in bed, he knew he shouldn't and so, with a deeply expelled breath, he sat up, clutching the covers against himself. Cold air curled around him, spilling over the skin exposed by the gap between the bottom of his shirt and waistband, making him shudder, and he hesitated for more than a moment before crawling from his warmed, linen nest.

Meaning to go straight to the bathroom, Arthur instead remained sat on the edge of the mattress, freezing. He stretched out a hand to see if the radiator was on and found the metal like ice, explaining why the house felt colder than usual as Francis must have forgotten to turn it on before leaving.

Unwilling to get undressed when the house was the same temperature as it was outside, he put on an old woollen cardigan he found discarded on a chair and went to switch on the central heating. The old, brick house, like most of its kind, didn't retain heat very well and took some time to warm up, one of the numerous reasons Arthur really didn't like living there. He had nothing against the house itself, per say, it was just that it could never live up to the old family roost. In all honesty, no other place ever could and sometimes he worried that he'd never be able to truly make a home for himself.

All radiators in the house whirred to life at the flip of a switch, the ancient pipes making strange noises as they were awoken, and Arthur pulled his cardigan tighter around himself as he waited for their effects. Outside the sky was white, the clouds like one continuous ceiling, perhaps holding rain. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen a blue sky.

A low rumbling in his abdomen alerted him that he was hungry, although he didn't feel like eating, and he supposed he should probably have what Francis had so kindly left for him. Finding last night's meal wrapped in clingfilm in the fridge, he considered microwaving it but felt it would make no difference as, either way, it would still taste like nothing to him. He sat at the table in the kitchen in the grey light from the window as he joylessly scooped food into his mouth, chewing with disinterest then swallowing. It tasted no better than it had the first time, but he finished the plate anyway.

Feet tingling against the chilled tile floor, Arthur was eager to leave the room, placing his plate in the sink to wash later. He went across the hall, standing in the doorway to the living room but, for some reason, was unable to enter, a heavy reluctance forming in him. It was a barren room, depressing, the same as it had been when they'd first moved in. Walls a worn in beige with not a single picture on the hooks left by the last residents and a carpet that had seen better days.

Turned off by the bleakness of it, he ventured back upstairs to the bedroom. While it was more personalised than the rest of the house, sometimes it was still more like a hotel room than a place he would own for the foreseeable future, but still made him feel more at home than anywhere else in the house.

He perched on the edge of the mattress, staring out the window at the bright view of sky that blended in with the rest of the wall surrounding it. His phone, still on the side table, hadn't yet gone off once, which puzzled him briefly until he remembered that it was off. Debating whether it was worth it to make contact with the world beyond the front door, he knew Francis would probably be texting him all day and so thought it best that he turn the device on.

The screen lit up with messages, mostly inconsequential but one, as expected, from his other half, asking how he was. He shot off a simple reassurance in reply and ignored anything work based, tossing the phone behind him, hearing a buzz as soon as it was out of reach.

A sigh running through him, he leaned his stiff body back, reaching for it but finding the phone just out of range. Swivelling round to locate it visually, Arthur stretched further, lying back to grasp it and see the reply of three little Xs from the affectionate Frenchman, causing a whisp of a smile to blow over his lips. He hoped Francis wouldn't be waiting by the phone all day out of worry.

Spread out over the mattress, limbs splayed, Arthur took a deep breath, letting it go slowly and savouring how his muscles seemed to unwind into the pillowy sheets. He didn't think lying down had ever felt quite so amazing, staying that way, just staring at the ceiling, and letting his body go lax. Breathing slower and deeper, he could have been sinking, floating downward without fear of crashing, as a levity overtook him in mind and being.

Slowly rolling onto his side, drawing his legs up behind him, spine extended to its fullest, he inhaled the scent of used cotton, still faintly infused with detergent. He didn't know how he could possibly still be tired but, somehow, he was, the softness of the duvet so inviting to lie on top of that the darkness of his inner eyelids became all he could see as he pulled the bunched-up sheets close to his chest, clinging onto them.

Although the sun remained hidden behind indecisive clouds, a light broke through, pale white but mellow, and warmed Arthur's back. Hands made of natural light caressed his shoulders, his neck, their touch unintrusive, willing him back to sleep.

By the time he woke, though, the gentle contact had retracted back into the clouds along with the lightness that had briefly raised his spirits, the room now desolate as he opened his eyes to blackness.

It was late afternoon already, barely enough light for him to see his own hand where it lay inches from his face. Flexing his fingers as though he needed to check they were indeed his, he stared through the gaps between them, everything appearing fuzzy for a few moments before his vision adjusted. Across the room, the clock's glowing numbers read five pm, or there abouts, meaning Francis would be home soon. Another day wasted, not that he felt overly guilty for it this time. Untangling himself, he sat up and stood too quickly, dizziness halting him, swaying in place until it subsided. On unstable legs, he dragged his feet out of the room, bumping a shoulder into the doorframe on the way.

Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, there was the taste of something bitter and a lump in his throat. The unbearable thirst that comes when one is sleeping had dried his mouth out completely and he returned to the kitchen to make some tea, which did little to help rid him of the strange flavour that clung to the backs of his teeth. Leaving to head back upstairs as soon as his purpose there was completed, he made sure to bring along his cigarettes and lighter with him, throwing open the bedroom window to lean out with one.

Usually he wouldn't smoke in the house, as the stench dug its claws to everything it touched but didn't really want to sit outside when the temperature was dropping by at least two degrees every night. Just hanging his head out the window had his teeth chattering. Cupping a hand around the end of the paper stick to shield the flame while the other end was clamped between his lips, Arthur inhaled as soon as the tip glowed orange, smoke carried away on the wind before it had time to rise.

Street lights on the pavement below illuminated the empty roads. There was surprisingly little traffic for the city where they lived, although, it was mostly a residential place. A lot of newlyweds and elderly couples gravitated to the area because of the proximity to public transport links and affordable, if limited, space; partly the reasons that Arthur and Francis had chosen it too. Rows of front gardens and bay windows, pebble dashed and repainted exteriors that so carelessly ruined the traditional brickwork underneath. A strange kind of terraced London suburbia.

Folding his arms to rest his chin upon, Arthur's gaze fell on one such house front, the red brick covered by a layer of white wash with a neat patch of shrubs in front, the bushes somewhat bare but still, miraculously, alive, somehow. He didn't know who lived in the house, had never seen them, nor was he acquainted with any of his neighbours, the very thought of it a foreign concept. All he knew, or ever wanted to know, was what was left for viewing through undrawn curtains.

His train of thought, brought on by the stillness, was broken when his eyes picked up on movement out of the corner of his vision. With the distinctive sound of claws on the pavement, a woman with a lead attaching her to, what looked like, a small bear strolled by the house he had been staring at. There were often dog walkers about this time of night, some of them so frequent that Arthur could recognise them, though he had never seen this particular couple before.

He surely would have remembered them if he had as he had never seen a dog quite like it. Striking in its massive size, it's fur hung about it in a huge, cloaking, black mass, a shade of black darker than coal, than the sky, the blackest black he had seen in his life. Its breath was visible, coming out in misty puffs from its nostrils, its chiselled, squarish head faced in the direction it walked like it stalked the shadows ahead of itself.

Arthur watched them as they passed, transfixed almost. Leaning further out the window as they began to disappear from view down the road, he knocked the glass pane slightly, causing it to creek. It was surely the sound which caught the creature's interest, as it turned its great head to stare up and directly at the source of the noise, but Arthur could have sworn it stared him in the eye when it looked around. Two glistening, amber beads that bore into him, no discernible thoughts behind them. Locked in place, unable to look away as cinders tumbled from the end of his cigarette, Arthur leaned out into the cold air like those eyes were trying to speak to him.

Whatever fantasised, interspecial connection they had shared was broken, however, when the lead around the animal's neck was given a tug, prompting it to walk on, its gaze pointed straight ahead, silken coat rippling with the movement of its strides. Soon gone from sight, Arthur was left watching where they had been, slowly poisoning his lungs and growing numb from the chilled wind that swept over his face. Lips beginning to tingle from exposure, he dropped the useless end of his cigarette onto the driveway bellow to join a multitude of others he had been meaning to clear up for weeks and yanked the window closed with a grunt.

Legs giving out as soon as he was beside the mattress, Arthur lay back against the head board, rubbing his eyes. With nothing to do, he was basically waiting for the day to end so that he could go back to bed.

Francis would be home any moment yet the thought of this didn't elicit the excitement it should, instead the dread of having to socialise pinching his windpipe. Being miserable alone was one thing but feeling that way around other people brought a new layer of unpleasantness. Even if Francis knew he wasn't quite as okay as he was claiming to be, he still didn't want to reveal the full extent of how absolutely fucking awful he felt, as much for his own pride as to spare the other's worry, and sometimes faking a smile or simply nodding when he was asked 'are you alright?' physically hurt.

Blinking hard against the greyed walls, his eyes refused to focus fully on anything. Arthur's eyesight wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but he hoped he could last a few more years without needing glasses, well aware of how expensive they were after paying for both his brother's prescriptions. Leaning forward to press the heels of his palms into the sockets, he tried again, the world remaining fuzzy around the edges.

With a drawn out, nasal sigh, he stretched his arms out in front of him, hearing something click, then let them flop down again. Grabbing his laptop from beside the bed, he opened it up to be blinded by the blueish light and browsed through his emails before he was reduced to binge watching shows he hadn't seen in months as a form of unchallenging entertainment.

Halfway through his second episode, the sound of the front door swinging on its hinges alerted him of the presence of his partner, as did the calling of his name, to which he didn't reply, immediately followed by nearing footsteps. The bedroom door creaked open slowly, Francis poking his head around the corner like he expected Arthur to be asleep, face lighting up when he saw he wasn't.

"I am glad to see you took my advice," he commented when he saw the other had not strayed far from where he had left him that morning.

Pulling a strained smile back, Arthur looked over with failing eyes. "I didn't have anything else to do," he replied, his voice hoarse from not being used all day.

"Good," the older man chuckled lightly at the endearing croak, "You look less tired."

Regardless of how he appeared, Arthur still felt like death but didn't mention this, keeping up his faked expression.

"Hungry?" Francis continued.

"Not really," the Englishman mumbled, gaze flitting away to miss the concerned look he received.

"I will leave enough for you in case you change your mind," his ever-thoughtful companion offered, smiling again as he left.

Arthur waited for his lover to be gone before crumpling in on himself, unaware that he had, for whatever reason, subconsciously tensed his body. He had expected to have been left alone for a while, curling up under the covers once more, but was soon joined, again, by his limited company as Francis returned.

"What are you watching?" he asked conversationally as he slipped off his trousers and got beneath the covers.

"Some documentary series," Arthur spoke in a flat tone, no investment to his words.

"Ah, interesting," Francis enthused mildly as footage of war was played over a narration of events.

As morbid as it may be, there was something fascinating about such atrocities. While some people may like to think that, deep down, humanity was kind and loving, Arthur thought that war was the best representation of mankind there was. Violent, selfish, careless, self-destructive. If that wasn't the human race, he didn't know what was.

He kept his musings to himself, however, as Francis cuddled closer, using his limp frame for support. While the older of the pair would occasionally wince or tut empathetically, Arthur watched with a straight face, almost calloused to the awful facts.

With no idea of how he could still be so spent of energy, Arthur gave up prolonging the day after a few more episodes, not having paid much attention to it anyhow, and closed his laptop. While Francis settled down, his eyelids descending with ease, the smaller man frowned as his shoulders began to ache as he laid out flat. Something plucked at the muscles of his upper back just enough to be a nuisance, letting him know it was there, and stayed with him as he rolled over to try and find a more comfortable position.

Beside him, his other half was already asleep, face blissfully expressionless as he occupied his half of the bed, while Arthur, afraid of waking him with his movements, tried to shift slowly, a little at a time. Whatever stance he found himself in, though, the pain seemed to move with him to the worst possible place, determined to burden him. Sitting up, he attempted to roll it from his shoulders, stretching them so that they strained, a tight pulling sensation easing the twinge momentarily only to have it return as soon as he laid down again.

Heaving a sigh, he turned onto his front, the most accommodating position he could find despite the fact it crushed his lungs a bit, hugging his pillow with both arms. The face of his lover, inches from his own, was motionless, lips hanging apart, the softest rumbling coming from the back of his throat to show he was truly numb to the world. Envying him slightly for this, Arthur turned his face the other way, staring hazily at the sliver of black sky he could see through the gap of the curtains instead.

Time moved by maliciously slow, the night feeling endless in a way it hadn't in a long time. One of the nights when a person is awake to count down the hours they have left to sleep in. Arthur recalled the last time he experienced a night like that, when his mother had first gotten sick as thoughts of what, at the time, seemed to be the unthinkable filled his head until morning broke every night for months on end. It was nearing the approach of dawn by the time his darkened eyelids agreed to stay closed, the exhausted man barely stirring as his partner rose for work only an hour after he had managed to drift off.

His brain whirring back to life hours later, he may as well have not bothered with sleep at all as it had done nothing to help the pain and fatigue that was engrained into his very bones. Rolling to his side, his cotton tomb tangled around him, trying to convince him he didn't need the outside world, enticing him to stay with downy, strangling arms. He struggled to be free of it, his limbs cumbersome, almost too heavy to lift, but managed to fling the sheets aside eventually.

Stomach rumbling as he stretched out his limbs, he was simultaneously hit with a random wave of nausea. He couldn't tell whether he felt sick because he was hungry or if they were unrelated and he should refrain from trying to keep anything down but ventured downstairs for the first and only time that day where last nights extras were still left out, as promised. Francis would check to see if they had been eaten, and would low-key allude to it if wasn't, and so he endeavoured to take a mouthful, only to spit it into the sink when his insides rejected it.

Binning the rest, he holed himself up in the bedroom again, heading straight back between the sheets without even thinking. However, it was no longer a relief to return to that place, the mattress hard as marble against his aching bones, the covers seemingly wanting to kill him, either by heat or asphyxiation, the room itself oddly cramped, as though the walls were getting closer together. A stifling must made it harder to breath deeply and every time he sighed he became light headed.

Despite this, Arthur couldn't force himself to leave. He would only go and be unproductive in a different room if he did and, at least in the confines of his sheets he could claim he was where he was meant to be if he wanted to be utterly useless. Somewhere amidst the small mountain of covers that were piled atop him, his phone buzzed as a message came through. He dug through them to find it was Alfred texting, something about a date. Glancing over the words, the correct response wouldn't come to mind, and he forgot what the message had been about in the first place as soon as the screen faded out.

He wasted the following hours of his life in a dull variety of ways. Staring at the ceiling as he dragged on a cigarette, inhabiting the surreal space between consciousnesses, watching the shadows stretch wider and longer as they patiently invaded every crevice of the room, sapping the colours from objects, turning them to ash.

Like the day before, he heard his lover return from work, call out to him and proceed to where he lay, remaining unresponsive. Even as a caring, blond head peered into the room, repeating the name it had before, Arthur was quiet, facing away from the man that spoke to him, feigning sleep. It didn't take long for the other to realise he wouldn't be getting a reply and he closed the door as he went.

From downstairs, the sounds of a normal, functioning person, going about their life like they were meant to, reached the pale imitation of a man above. Listening to someone else manage to operate so seamlessly, without the slightest hint of hinderance, really did make Arthur look at himself with embarrassment as he lay there, barely a human anymore, unable to appreciate everything he had because of his own inadequacy. For whatever reason, people still liked him, or pretended to, he still had a job and a home and a future, of sorts, to look forward to yet, instead of making the most of what he had, he was hiding away in bed looking for reasons to ruin himself. That was perhaps the worst part; that it was all his fault.

Continuing to reflect over his own self-hatred, Arthur found himself in the company of his partner as Francis came back around the time they would usually retire for the evening. At first, they didn't speak but Francis must have noted he was awake as he tried to strike up a conversation.

"How are you, amour?"

The question sounded like it had come from far away, as though he was being called to from the other end of some wide, open space.

"Fine," he stated, his own voice barren.

The quilts that covered him were disturbed a little as Francis joined him under them. "You did get out of bed today, oui?" the Frenchman spoke with hesitation to the back of the other's head.

A muffled noise meant to mean yes was his reply, as Arthur told himself he wasn't technically lying since he had physically been outside of their room, although he knew this wasn't what Francis had meant by this. However, the other seemed satisfied with his answer as he felt a pair of lips be pressed to the back of his neck and nothing else after that.

* * *

The studio was quiet that afternoon, very few distractions to hold Francis back from what he should have been doing, yet he still found himself unfocused. Repetitive thoughts of the man he worried for took up most of the space in his mind, so much so he felt a pressure behind his eyes like his anxieties tried to push themselves out through the sockets.

Sighing heavily, he sat back in his chair, running a hand down his face as he allowed himself to reflect on those thoughts. He had never seen Arthur act this way before and he couldn't ignore how deeply troubling he found it. However much Arthur insisted he didn't need help or that he just needed some time to fix things himself, as he claimed, Francis had watched him deteriorate over the last three days for, seemingly, no reason. Things may have been stressful for him lately, but he had never seen him implode like this, it wasn't how he would usually react. Even when Alice had died he had still been functional.

While he wanted to give Arthur some space to try and work things out, it was fairly clear to Francis that he was struggling, pulling himself down, and didn't know what to do about it. The problem was that neither did Francis. There was no outright issue to solve, nothing he could take care of and have things go back to normal. As much as he had tried not to let his worries overflow onto others, there was no shame in asking for help, especially when it wasn't for himself.

Most of the office had gone to lunch, which left him alone at his desk. Drumming his fingers on the armrests of the chair, he bit his lip while considering whether he should do what he was contemplating.

Deciding it was for the best, Francis took his phone in hand, scrolled to the contact he needed and pressed call.

"Hi, Francis. What's up?" the soft-spoken voice greeted after two rings.

He smiled slightly, as he always did when he heard that placid tone, his own voice seeming drained by comparison. "Bonne après-midi, Mattieu. Have you a moment to spare?" he enquired a little stiffly, thinking of how to word what he wanted to say.

"Sure, what is it?" Matthew sounded equally as unsure as he picked up on Francis' inflections, "Everything okay?"

A pause, wherein Francis struggled to come up with his next line. He knew there was no need to put on a brave face for Matthew, the perceptive young man would have easily seen through it anyway, and so came out with it plainly.

"I do not know what to do with your brother. He has not gotten out of bed for two days and he barely eats. He is inconsolable over something, but I do not know what. I was hoping, maybe, you had the slightest clue as to what was going on."

"How do you mean, exactly?" the younger man didn't sound surprised, but his tone became a shade sterner as his partial training kicked in naturally, "Does he seem upset over something specific? Did he mention anything?"

Francis hesitated as he sat forward again, hunching over his keyboard. "He said something about your mother the other night and he keeps saying he needs to think about things but none of it made much sense. It is like he is…coming undone," sighing again, he shook his head.

A hum of consideration came down the line as Matthew took a few moments to deconstruct what he had been told. Less than a minute but still longer than Francis was comfortable with, the seconds like eons as he waited for a response.

Eventually, Matthew spoke with a certain reluctance, his voice low and soft like he was breaking bad news to someone. "Look, I don't want to scare you when I say this and I'm not diagnosing him because I don't have the right to do that, but I think he could be kind of depressed."

The words, while not beyond the realm of expectation, struck the older man's chest like ice. Remaining quiet with his mouth open for some seconds, his name being repeated on the other end of the phone prompted him to reply.

"I…I suppose that makes sense but…" he trailed off, not sure how to react.

"I'm not saying anything for sure so don't take my word for it, but I've wondered for a while now," Matthew sounded a little guilty at this, he probably thought he should have done more to help but no one could blame him for anything. Admittedly, Francis felt the same way. "I mean, a lot of the signs are there."

A sigh escaped the Frenchman as he reflected over everything. "How long do you think he has felt this way? Out of all the times he could have done, why does he fall apart now?" he thought aloud, trying to gain some perspective.

"It's hard to tell. You know how he stores things away rather than dealing with them, this could have been building up for a while. People can function under those kinds of conditions for a long time, not that anyone should," the other paused, hearing only silence from his surrogate brother. "But, like I said, he'd have to go to a professional to get an official diagnosis. Or maybe he does just need some time to figure stuff out," a soft exhale came from the device, "I probably shouldn't have said anything."

"Do not be ridiculous, you always manage to help," Francis reassured him, "Do you think I should try and persuade him to go to a doctor then?"

"It wouldn't hurt to try but…" Matthew's voice petered away, an uncomfortable hum coming from him as he stopped himself finishing his thought.

Frowning at the receiver, Francis urged him to say what he was holding back. "But what?"

Another pause and a stuttered noise came from the other before he continued.

"Well, it's just that things like this are never really that…simple," he cut himself off once more but carried on of his own volition, "Even if you manage to get him to go he'll have to be honest and pretty vulnerable if he wants anything to come of it and I just don't see that happening."

Francis hadn't considered this aspect and it was true. If Arthur wouldn't even express these feelings to him the likelihood of him telling a stranger was practically non-existent, that is if he could talk him into seeing someone at all.

"But it's worth a try anyway, I guess," Matthew tried to sound encouraging, sensing the despair of the man on the other end of the phone.

"Oui, yes of course," Francis' attempt to be optimistic fell pitifully flat.

"Hey, we haven't seen you guys this week and Al wants to talk about some America stuff, how about we come over tomorrow. You think that might help?"

Smiling again at Matthew's eagerness to be of aid, the older man nodded despite the person he was speaking to not being able to see, "It would get him out of bed, at least."

"Okay, well, we'll see you both tomorrow then," Matthew scheduled.

"Oui, mon petit. Bonne journée," Francis bid him goodbye in the language he had taught him when he was younger.

"Vous aussi," he returned the same, making Francis beam as the phone call came to an end with an electronic click.

* * *

Francis came home earlier that day, finding Arthur had still not shifted. The food that was left for him had not been touched at all this time, still on a plate under a layer of clingfilm in the fridge, and the house smelled of stale cigarettes. Again, faking sleep when his partner came upstairs, Arthur felt the other's weight dent the mattress as he stretched out atop the covers, lying there with him for a few minutes without speaking. He got up after a while, though, going downstairs where he stayed the rest of the afternoon.

The novelty of sleep had long since worn off for Arthur, especially as it brought no rest for him. He would wake up still as tired as he had been before closing his eyes, his body paining him from the second he woke. It wasn't enjoyable, not in the slightest, to stay there all day but he had no reason to get up, and he was just so exhausted.

This being said, he was plagued by a restlessness, the muscles of his legs feeling stiff and tight, and, although he knew it would hurt him, Arthur couldn't ignore it anymore and would rather take mild agony over the irritation of needing to move. Coming to a standing position with the agility of a clockwork doll, he emerged from his isolation and was halfway down the stairs when he stopped on hearing voices coming from the living room. One was Francis, obviously, but the other two he couldn't place, especially since they sounded odd, sort of grainy and garbled.

Homing in on the two, unidentified people, Arthur sighed as he recognised they weren't speaking English, and knew instantly who they were. He almost about faced and went straight back where he had come from but, he must not have been as quiet as he thought as Francis called from the front room.

"Amour, is that you?"

Silently groaning, Arthur bit back the frustration that had begun to build at the mere thought of the two French natives and descended the rest of the way, coming into view of the laptop that showed the couple over Skype.

"There is mon ange," Francis beamed lovingly up at him while his parents glanced in his direction with steely eyes.

"Hello Mr and Mrs Bonnefoy. Comment allez-vous?" he asked, knowing it would make things a little less excruciating if he spoke in their language.

"Oui, bien, Arthur, en tous cas," Louis, the older Frenchman, continued the conversation he had been having with his son prior to Arthur's entrance, the woman beside him saying nothing.

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Arthur turned and went across the hall. He didn't know why he still tried with them. They had always made it clear they were not a fan of their son's choice in partner, but Arthur tried not to let it bother him too much. However, after they had moved back to their homeland having to leave Francis behind, as he already lived with Arthur at the time, their dislike had blossomed into something rather more severe.

Over in the safety of the kitchen, he listened to their prolonged goodbyes, a lot of 'love you's' and accentuated kisses being shared between them until the call finally ended and Francis came over to join him.

"Sorry about that, we were in the middle of something, they did not mean to ignore you," Francis apologised on his parents' behalf, still, somehow, unable to see the fact that they truly hated his partner.

Shooting him a look, Arthur didn't comment, pouring himself a glass of water to make it look like he had come downstairs for a reason.

The other came further into the room, leaning against their tiny dining table, crossing both his arms and legs.

"You know, I was thinking we could visit them sometime soon," he suggested in a musing kind of way, "We have not been on vacation in a long time, after all."

Lip curling at the thought of it, the Englishman thought up an excuse to put it off, as he had been for the last five years.

"I don't think I'll be getting much time off any time soon, why don't you go for a weekend without me."

"But I want you to come with me," Francis lilted, met with silence. "We could go somewhere else, if you like," he persuaded, thinking a holiday to be a good idea, something Arthur may actually get excited about, "going away could be good for us both."

"I still don't know if I could get time off," Arthur turned down, uninspired by the idea, just wanting to get back up to bed.

"We could go for a weekend, somewhere close," the older man persisted, "You could talk to Alistair and see if he would suggest somewhere in Scotland."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Arthur snapped limply at the mention of his seldom referenced half-brother.

It had been a misstep on Francis' part to bring him up and he backed away at the weakly angered tone in his lover's voice. "It was just an idea. Never mind."

Gaze falling, the younger man went quiet, as though expressing an emotion had tired him out, and looked away again.

"Goodnight," he uttered, shuffling past the other man and back up to his hideout, leaving an untouched glass of water on the sideboard.

* * *

When days are spent without change, they blur together too easily. Change is the indicator of time, after all, and without the former, the latter is thrown into disarray. Everything still hurt, life was still gruelling, and Arthur had lost track of how many days he had spent between those dirty sheets by now.

The night sky outside didn't help to indicate how much time had passed as the sun set long before noon this time of year and he couldn't see the trajectory of the moon for clouds obscuring it. Francis' comings and goings were the only semblance of change he had to go by and even then, he was in some sort of a daze, barely noticing when someone else was there. He wondered if this was what a coma felt like. Not quite dead yet not amongst the living. He couldn't say he minded it too much.

"Je suis désolé, cherie, but it is time to get up."

An artificial light flooded the room, stinging his eyes, but was soon blocked by a solid form. He felt the covers, that were wrapped loosely around him, be peeled back and a warm hand cup his shoulder.

Squinting to focus on the face close to his own, he met a pair of eyes watching him, as concerned as they were blue. The lips below them twisted into a sympathetic smile and a second hand slid beneath the side of him that was pressed into the mattress, softly urging him to sit up.

"Alfred and Matthew are coming over, you need to get dressed," Francis whispered, holding the limp body upright.

Cracked lips parted, presumably to ask what was going on, but no sound made it out of them, Arthur only blinking with weighted eyelids that looked desperate to close again.

"Come now, I have run you a bath," the older man told him, smoothly running his hands down the skeletal arms to hold his lover's hands, standing and gently pulling the other up with him.

Being led to the bathroom on legs that shook like a new born deer's, Arthur caught the scent of flowers as steam dampened his cheeks, a cloud of moist warmth reaching from inside the tiled room, drawing him in.

Leaving his partner propped against the sink, Francis checked to see if the water was the right temperature then turned off the taps. He looked back at the other, who stood hugging himself, and pressed a kiss to his cheekbone.

"The boys will here in about an hour, take your time if you feel like it," he encouraged thoughtfully, closing the door behind him as he left.

Pink tinted water filled the bath, the surface spotted with little peaks of bubbles, like icebergs at sea, and radiated a sweet-smelling vapour. Pulled in by the alluring fragrance, Arthur leant over the tub, piercing the water's skin with his roughened fingers, trailing them through the soothing heat. He hadn't seen to his personal hygiene in days, he hadn't had the motivation to, nor had he taken an actual bath on over a year, usually sticking to showers since they were quicker, but, when covered in the filth of his own wallowing, the water was too inviting to resist.

Fabric glued to his body with days worth of old perspiration, it was a relief to be naked, his skin taking a much-needed breath as it was exposed to the air. Thankfully, the mirror was frosted over with condensation so that Arthur wasn't forced to face his own, ghastly appearance as he carefully lowered himself into the bath, movements deliberate but rickety.

Instantaneous and immense pleasure swept over him as he was submerged, becoming weightless, his physical burdens lifted from him. Sliding down further, he sunk and floated with the capacity of his lungs, water covering his ears so that everything was blurred out. He listened to his own breathing, his heartbeat, the sounds that reminded him he was still living.

Inhaling through his nose, Arthur closed his eyes, allowing his face to be engulfed along with the rest of him, parting his eyelids again once on the other side of the shimmering surface. Above him, the ceiling rippled, bubbles bursting from him. A few slipped from between his pursed lips at first, small and wobbly, but then a torrent as he opened his mouth, expelling everything in his lungs so his back pressed against the bottom of the porcelain bowl.

In the silence, he stayed motionless. His instincts told him it was time to resurface, a burning sensation heating his chest as his organs begged for air, but he denied them. The heat spread, crawling up his throat, and it wasn't until he felt the pressure building in his skull that he raised both arms out of the water, gripping the walls of the bath to pull himself up.

Swiping his darkened blond locks from his face, he took in deep but controlled breaths, replenishing the oxygen in his bloodstream, his racing heartbeat slowing to a natural pace. While his hair was weighed down by saturation, his head was, somehow, lighter, clearer. Only marginally so but enough that he could look with fresh eyes.

It was good to be clean again, his skin feeling tight now that it wasn't covered in a layer of grime. When he rubbed at the dried-out patches on his chin with bitten down nails, tiny flakes came loose. Gathering his worn clothes from the floor, his nose wrinkled at the smell and he tossed them into his washing basket.

Coming through to the bedroom in his towel, he noted the sheets had been changed and his bedside table had been cleared of the mug he had been using as an ashtray. The window had been opened to try and clear out the stale atmosphere of the room and Arthur welcomed the frigid breeze that scathed his skin, having not left the house for the better part of a week. He wasn't sure how long he had been stewing in the bathroom but he didn't want to be half naked when his brothers arrived and so he threw on a jumper, that he swore didn't used to hang so loosely from his frame, and some trousers.

The mist from earlier had dissipated and, as he brushed his teeth over the sink, he couldn't avoid his reflected self as it mimicked his actions. Circles, not just dark but black, hung low below his eyes and his hair refused to be tamed however hard he attempted to flatten it with a brush, but he didn't care too much what his family made of his appearance.

There was a rapping at the door just as he spat a mouthful of frothy toothpaste down the drain, but Francis was downstairs to let their guests in. By the time he made it to the landing, cheerful interactions were already being exchanged and his joining them elicited a bright grin from the elder twin.

"So, you're still alive then," he joked, "I've been texting you all week, man. Why haven't you picked up?"

Eyes landing on his brother's carefree face, Arthur felt his lips twitch upward of their own accord.

"Sorry," his voice crackled to life like an old record, "I've been distracted."

"Well, you're just going to have to listen to me ramble about everything that's happened since I last saw you then," the younger man spoke in his typically brazen manner, throwing his jacket on one of the pegs by the door as he came through. "You ordered everything already, right?" he glanced back at Francis who shook his head in mild exasperation.

"Oui, mon trou noir, they said it would be about half an hour," he relayed the good news, causing Alfred's grin to stretch, somehow, wider, and looked back at his partner. "I thought it would be nice if we ordered some Chinese food and watched a movie together," he clarified with an easy smile.

Arthur felt himself subconsciously showing a similar expression to the one he was offered and the warmth that softened his chest told him that it was meant.

"I brought some DVDs to choose from," Alfred shouted from the front room where he was making himself at home, "You guys really need to get Netflix or something, like, how do you live like this?"

"Well, we apologise for living in the dark ages," Francis commented sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he followed the other.

Left in the hallway, Arthur's gaze fell on Matthew, who stood by the door removing his coat. Glancing back, the younger man gave him a light smile.

"Hey, Artie," he acknowledged him, speaking barely above a whisper, "How are you?"

"I'm alright," Arthur gave the standard response, essentially brushing him off.

"Francis said you haven't been at work all week," the other hinted that he knew something wasn't right, giving his brother the chance to talk about what had been going on if he felt so compelled to.

Despite this, the older man only shook his head with a benign air. "I was just taking a break," he told the truth to an extent, "How are you? You look tired."

He observed the bags that had started to collect below his sibling's usually bright eyes.

"Oh, yeah, I'm just a little stressed, I guess," Matthew brushed his fringe from his eyes and adjusted his glasses like he was trying to cover his face, "I've got this professor that likes to spring surprise quizzes on us and he still gives us a new assignment every a week," he let out a worn sigh. "It's just a lot to do, is all."

The smack of empathy that hit Arthur directly in the heart hurt and it must have shown on his face as Matthew added a quick reassurance. "It'll be Christmas break soon, though. I've just got to hold out until then."

"Don't work yourself too hard in the meantime, Mattie. Stress isn't good for a person."

Although he could see the irony of his words, Arthur had always been a very 'do as I say, not as I do' sort of parental figure and while it may have been slightly hypercritical it was done with the best of intentions.

"Hey, you two out there, come help me decide what to watch, Francis' choices are bad."

They were beckoned to join the rest of their quartet, walking in to find Alfred on the floor surrounded by a dozen identical DVD boxes, every front cover depicting some sort of explosion, car or generically attractive couple.

"So, I've got it narrowed down to a top three," he fanned out three boxes to show his brothers, all indistinguishable from one another, "Arthur, you pick."

Looking at his options, the elder Kirkland pointed to the middle one without thinking, all of them looking about as appealing as one another.

"You didn't even look properly," Alfred complained as though it made the slightest bit of difference.

With an exaggerated eyeroll, Arthur, again, studied the DVDs and made his choice. Alfred flipped the front around so he could see it and grinned approvingly.

"Nice choice," he commended with such sincerity that the others couldn't help but snigger quietly to themselves.

Slipping the disc into their ancient DVD player, the group settled into seats, Alfred angling his body towards the screen in anticipation.

"Shall we take bets on how long it will be before the first cliché?" Francis jested, raising an eyebrow at Matthew and Arthur.

"I've already counted two," Matthew happily took part in winding up his twin.

"Hey, shut up, I like this movie," Alfred fell for the bait, defending the subpar film as he always did.

Smirking at having gotten a reaction, the pair were pleased to hear the lightest breath of a laugh come from Arthur, his pale face showing a look of amusement. It was encouraging to see, especially since he was still being so quiet.

The food they had ordered arrived after a while and they ate in the living room out of the plastic containers, the relaxed atmosphere and sinfully delicious meal putting everyone in a good mood. With the film playing on, only the occasional criticism or remark sounded from the group, all of them enjoying the quiet company.

Scrunched up in the corner of the sofa beside Alfred, Arthur watched the sequence of events play, vaguely attempting to keep up with the story. Although the weariness of his physical being had mostly left him, there was still a loitering haze and he continually fought the urge to rest his eyes. He would have focused on the film to help himself to stay awake, however, it made such little narrative sense that he frequently found his brow furrowing in total confusion.

Glancing over at his brother to the left of him to find him engrossed in the experience, he felt that, perhaps, he was missing something but, looking over at the two men on the other sofa to find them expressing similar levels of bafflement showed the perplexed Englishman that he wasn't alone. Diligently taking in the information spouted at him through the asinine exposition of the characters, he only became increasingly lost. Again, looking over to see his brother's face alight with investment and then to the other's contorted frowns, Arthur felt the corners of his mouth lifting out of amusement, a stifled chuckle escaping his nose, followed by another, then more until he was laughing aloud for no apparent reason.

His outburst garnered puzzled looks from his family as they too began to smile, his random happiness infectious.

"Alfred, this really is utter shit," he exclaimed between gasps, to the delight of everyone but Alfred.

"What the fuck? This is a great movie!" the American expressed his disagreement, struggling to keep a straight face.

"For something written by a twelve-year-old, perhaps," Francis gave his opinion.

"You weren't even watching it," the younger man countered.

"Because it's terrible," his own twin threw back, drawing further laughter from their older sibling.

"Well, I'm sorry it's not up to your impossible standards," Alfred relented, the grin that never ventured far from his lips taking over, unable to resist being tickled by the joy of others.

Their interest in the film well and truly lost, the group let it play on for background sound as they began to chat, talking about what had happened in their lives in the short time they hadn't seen one another.

"So, you want to hear about my date, or what?" Alfred began.

"A date? What date?" Francis' interest was immediately peaked, "Why was I not told about this?"

"Because, it's weird how invested you get in other people's relationships, dude," the younger man lightly poked, "Plus, your advice is always way over the top, it never works."

Shaking his head, the hopeless romantic denied anything was wrong with his technique. "I give the best advice, you must be doing it wrong," he flicked his hair behind his shoulder, smiling smugly, "You clearly do not have the natural flair you need, unlike moi."

A snort came from the other end of the room as Arthur raised an eyebrow in argument to his partner's sweeping statements.

"I do not know what you are giving me that look for, cheri, it worked on you, did it not?" the self-proclaimed love expert smirked.

"You tricked me," Arthur accused.

"And eight years later, we are still together," Francis pointed out, feeling he had won.

"It's called pity, dear," came the characteristically biting reply, yet, when shooting him a playful glare, Francis noted the light-hearted spark in his lover's eye.

"So, anyway, about the girl that I didn't have to con into going on a date with me," Alfred cut through their exchange, "Her name is Michelle, we went out for coffee a couple days ago and she's real sweet and totally cool. I like her a lot."

"That's good to hear, Al," Arthur nodded, genuinely pleased for his brother.

"Yeah, I'm seeing her again soon," a lopsidedly, lovestruck grin occupied his face as he spoke, "I guess I owe you a thank you for leaving my number back there."

Harnessing everything in his power to not say 'I told you so', the elder Kirkland simply showed his support in return. "Not at all, I'm glad she called you."

"Make sure you bring a gift this time," Francis told him, unable to stay quiet on the subject, "and take her out to dinner, a nice place, not just some drab old coffee shop."

"Sure, I'll take her to Burger King, I've got coupons for a free milkshake," Alfred teased, getting his own back from earlier.

Disgust was evident on the other's face and a despairing sigh ran through him. "Mon Dieu, I give up. From now on, I will focus all of my attentions on Mattieu, were there is still hope."

Violet tinged eyes widened behind their frames with comic apprehension, the younger twin recoiling at the thought. "I'm happy to be single for now," he rejected as a chuckle ran through the group.

"Oh yeah, and," the older twin continued, remembering something, "my plane tickets came in the mail, I'm heading out there December seventeenth. You'll come to the airport with me, right?"

"But of course we will, we must be there to see you off safely," Francis clucked.

"Do you need help paying for the tickets at all?" Arthur offered, his anxieties over the whole event making his eager to help in any way possible but was waved off.

"The school is paying for the flight out and I've got my student loan for the way back," Alfred declined but looked over with hopeful eyes in a way that told his brother he was about to ask for something, "I was hoping I could borrow some money from you, though. I've got to get a train half way across the state to get to Paul and Linda's place once I'm there."

A frown scored Arthur's forehead at this and his tone held the slightest hint of judgement as he questioned, "Will they not come and pick you up?"

"Uh, well, they said they would have done but they have other family over so, you know," Alfred shrugged, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, seeming uncomfortable yet he still smiled, "It'll be a good way to see some of the state, anyway."

Readying a response, Arthur caught the gaze of his partner who shot him a look that made him think better of what he was about to say.

"We will help you out however you need, do not worry," Francis assured him.

A look of gratitude filled the young American's face and his words were genuine as he spoke. "Thanks, you guys, it really means a lot that you want to help."

"There is no need for that, mon cher, we want you to be happy," the older man smiled, "We cannot keep you here forever, can we."

Smiling blankly along with the others, Arthur tried not to let the statement affect him too much, telling himself it was all temporary, and that Alfred would be returning home in no time. There was no point in working himself up over everything again, and he, therefore, cut these thoughts off before they could manifest.

As it was a Friday night, the two younger men stayed later than they usually would have, putting on another film of Alfred's choice purely for the purpose of making fun of every scene, even the man who had started out defending it seeing the absurdity and joining in the ridicule at certain points.

While he had still been somewhat withdrawn, Francis was optimistic after seeing Arthur come back to himself. Despite not being completely convinced that he was capable of helping himself through whatever rough patch he was encountering, the evening had certainly been encouraging and it was good, so unbelievably good, to see him smile.

The night getting later as the film drew to a close, the youngest of the four exchanged looks that said it was time for them to leave and set about getting ready to head out.

"Hey, Artie," the older twin shifted a little, gently addressing the man that had started to fall asleep against him.

"Hm?" Arthur blinked, sitting up as though pretending he hadn't been ready to pass out while using his brother as a bed.

A soft laugh came from the larger man. "It's alright, dude, you can hit the hay now, me and Mattie are heading home."

"Oh, alright," the other replied, "Get home safe, you two."

"We'll text you when we get back," Matthew promised from the hallway, "and thanks for dinner."

"Any time, mon petit," Francis joined him by the door, followed by Arthur, who stood close to him, allowing an arm to be wrapped around his middle.

Exposed to the night and shivering, their farewells were brief and the two, defacto parents waved the pair off from the door.

Feeling much of the weight of his partner leaning against him, Francis looked down with a loving simper and gave his other half a squeeze. He reached over to put the chain on the door then trailed up the stairs after the other, catching up to him in the doorway of the bathroom where he caught the smaller man by the hips, leaning in to nuzzle his neck briefly before releasing him again.

"Thank you, Francis."

The man addressed glanced over his shoulder at the seemingly out of context statement to see a set of eyes like jade beads watching him earnestly.

Mouth curving up at the corners, Francis nodded in reply, going to bed with his mind at rest for the first time that week, soon accompanied by the other, who lay comfortably in his hold, barely stirring throughout the night.

As morning broke, however, so did the realisation that Francis ad been overly optimistic in his attitude as things went straight back to how they had been previously, as though the night before had never happened. Getting up and going about the day, the Frenchman could barely rouse his partner enough to exchange pleasantries, a human puddle that occupied the bed. He would have tried to force him up as he had the day before but there was really no reason and so, instead, Francis settled for sitting with him, leaving and returning at intervals, going about his business and occasionally checking on him, not a word spoken between them all through the day. Any suggestion of the Arthur he may have seen only hours before hand had faded, been lost to the void that now consumed his lover, like it had been taunting him.

The words of advice that Matthew had offered rebounded round his skull as Francis looked in on the pitiful scene from the doorway. Frustration brewed in him at the whole situation, his inability to do anything making matters infinitely worse. Although he had tried not to take the younger man's deductions as certainties as he had been told, the speculations had shaken him. There were too many stories out there of issues like these going unchecked that ended in tragic consequences. He winced at the thought.

Taking a breath to calm himself, Francis was well aware that he was overreacting, allowing his imagination to get the better of him, but he couldn't help it. Not when the man he loved was fading away right in front of him.

Turning away, he closed his eyes in thought. If Arthur wasn't an immediate danger to himself then surely there was no need to panic but there was always that lingering threat and it put him on edge to no end. There was no way of telling how long everything had been building up, no way of knowing how late was too late.

Forcefully shaking his head to rid it of those disturbing thoughts, he left the landing, the sight of his partner causing his anxieties over him to become too much. Retreating to a safe distance where he could clear his brain, Francis quelled the worry that was slowly eating away at his sanity.

* * *

Four in the morning was a strange time and, if he listened closely, Arthur could hear the tick of the clock all the way from the kitchen. There was a light on the wall, the source of which he was unable to locate. He couldn't remember anything that had happened that day.

Pale hair reached across the pillow beside him, satin fingers clawing toward him. The head they flooded from was faced away and deeply asleep. Arthur stared at the back of that head, considering how it was a view reserved for him alone and how to be a person's first and only was a fragile position.

Sitting bolt upright now, he stared with hooded eyelids at the wall at the foot of the bed. Completely bare apart from the ghostly wedge of light that struck it at its centre. The wardrobe door that always hung the slightest fraction ajar remained this way and, in the back of his mind, images of hands protruding from the darkness within it stirred.

He wasn't afraid though. He never had been. Not even when he was a child and the noises came at night, the scrapings and shufflings that made it appear he wasn't alone in his bedroom. The monsters under the bed were there to protect him, his mother had always said, they chased away the bad dreams. It was the monsters that lurked in the sunlight that he feared, now more than ever. Their disguises were too convincing.

A tiled surface crunched against the notches of his spine as he sat on the edge of the bath, using the wall to keep himself up. One leg was positioned on the inside of the tub, the other outside of it, on the mat that covered part of the floor. He could see the lower half of his body in the reflection of the mirror on the wall, the rest of him cut off from the waist up.

He pulled both legs up against his chest so that he was left balancing, precariously. The bathroom smelled cold and like dried out moisture, the scent only a bathroom could possess, and it fitted his introspective mood perfectly. It was the only room in the house that had no windows, had never been touched by natural light, and it felt that way.

Chin rested atop his knees, Arthur embraced his legs, holding them tightly against his body, making himself the smallest, tightest ball he possibly could. Eyes fixed on one particular tile in the corner, he noticed it was different than the rest, or so he thought at first. Observing it, his brain was able to decipher what he saw, finding the square to be the same as the rest but rotated. He didn't know what frustrated him more, the mistake or how uniform the rest of the tiles were. It would have frustrated him, that is, if in that moment, he had felt anything at all.

Unable to shift his gaze, the swirling, blue pattern seemed to morph the longer he watched it. Two dark splotches became more prominent, a line below them making a kind of face, an animal's face.

A dull, heavy ache started to throb in his chest at this. He wasn't sure why.

"What are you doing?"

A voice echoed against the smooth walls, refracting off of multiple solid surfaces until it reached Arthur's ears.

Head lifting as he failed to rip his gaze away from that corner, his mouth hung open, waiting for words to spill out.

"I don't know who's cat it was," he muttered without thinking.

"What cat? What are you talking about?"

Shaking his head, the ache in his ribcage grew to a stabbing, searing pain. His nose stung, and warm, wet trails trickled down his face.

"I didn't know its name," his voice squeaked with the strain of not snapping.

"I do not understand, Arthur."

He swallowed thickly, choking through his nostrils, an ugly sputtering.

An arm around his shoulder guided him out of the bathroom, coaxing him back to bed. Pressed against the firm chest beside him, he mourned his own existence, unable to truly cry as he had done before, almost like the tears he had shed had not yet been replenished. Instead a crushing sadness came in waves, paralyzing him then ebbing away to return tenfold.

Physical pain had never been something that bothered him too much, it was temporary after all, but whatever this was, he would have given anything for it to end. Even in his sleep, he wasn't spared, waking every half hour still feeling as though his heart were wrapped in chains, his dreams vague but sad as he dreaded the sunrise.

* * *

A frown wrinkled Arthur's forehead as he was jostled awake by a gentle shaking. Outside, the grey tinge of another day peaked through the blinds, bright enough for it to still be the morning, and he narrowed his eyes in protest.

"I am sorry to do this to you again, amour," Francis apologised from above.

Coughing several times before speaking, Arthur looked up with hazy eyes.

"What is it?" he rasped.

The other looked hesitant at first but spoke with a caring certainty, his face creased with concern.

"I made you an appointment at the doctors, we are going there now," he informed the younger man who's frown deepened as he looked about to argue. "Please, Arthur, I want what is best for you and I do not know how to help," Francis interjected, the expression he held so earnest that Arthur closed his mouth again.

There was silence for a short while, the older man keeping up his expression as all he could do was hope, until the slightest nod came from the other in agreement, a ball of lead forming in his stomach.

* * *

Notes

En tous ca – Anyway

Je suis désolé - I am sorry

Trou noir – Black hole (because Alfred's appetite is a void that will never be filled)

Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of the UK during WW2, suffered from severe depression after the war, guilty over the deaths of hundreds of thousands of men that were sent to fight and never returned. He referred to his depression as his 'black dog' and I find this quite impactful for some reason.

There are also tales of folklore (originating from several nationalities including English) that the black dog is a spirit with connotations of protection. This comes from the old belief that the first soul buried in a graveyard would remain there to help new souls find the way into the afterlife and so no human was doomed to be trapped on earth as a spirit forever they would bury a dog there first. The spirit of the dog would stay to protect the grounds and the new souls that came to it and it would help them safely into the afterlife.

Alistair is Scotland, as you can probably tell. He had no official name so that's what I went with.

Michelle is Seychelles, that's what I saw most commonly used.

I named Francis' parents Louis and Camille because that sounds French.

Thanks for reading, reviews are welcomed.


	7. Chapter 7

Warning - Sexual content and discussion of medication ahead.

Disclaimer - I want to make clear that I am not trying to discourage the use of medication, I am not against it in any way.

* * *

Staring at the little white box, words printed on it in bold, clinical font, Arthur was unsure as to how he had acquired it. Medication. The word made his skin crawl.

He could remember sitting in a waiting room the day before, Francis beside him, and his name being called over the loud speaker. Thankfully, Francis had spared him the embarrassment of following him into that sterile office but beyond that point everything was somewhat fuzzy. There were questions, vague yet simultaneously deeply revealing, to which he gave stunted nods with a blank expression.

Did he often feel alone? Did he ever experience periods of a low mood or unexplained anxiety? Was he often tired? Did he frequently feel his endeavours to be pointless or trivial?

He didn't think too much about the information he was giving away, nor the implications of it, seeing no reason to lie to a stranger he was unlikely to ever cross paths with again. And anyway, he was there because his other half had practically begged him to go and he felt that, while he would have been lying to a man he had no relation to, it was like a round-about way of deceiving his partner and he just couldn't do that after the way Francis had looked at him.

So, he had left the office with a slip of paper, a signature scrawled along the dotted line and a prescription he didn't bother to read which they picked up from the local pharmacy on the way home.

Arthur hadn't touched it that day, he needed some time to think about what he wanted to do. Honestly, he hadn't thought this would be the outcome. Some unspecific advice and maybe the business card of a therapist's office was all he had expected, not an actual, physical, supposed solution. The very idea that medicine could help with something as intangible as emotions was an abstract one and he had trouble wrapping his head around it.

Never having been able to fully trust any form of pharmaceutical solution, he regarded the packet on his desk with suspicion. It could be purely a placebo, however, judging by the list of chemicals that filled the back, he found this unlikely. Not to mention that whether those chemicals would do more good than bad was anybody's guess, seeing as the list of side effects was almost as long.

While headaches and long-term weight gain were not exactly appealing, it was the fact that those strange, bitter blocks could have such an effect on his mental makeup, or were meant to, at least, that was his ultimate concern. He was depressed. He wasn't stupid so this much was obvious, yet he wasn't sure that he really wanted this to change.

Being miserable wasn't something he enjoyed, but at least he knew how it worked. Happiness had always appeared so fragile to him, and such hard work to keep up and, a lot of the time, it didn't seem worth it. What's more, Arthur had accepted his state. He was an anxious, cynical little man, he could play that role and play it well, and the thought of that being taken from him frightened him, especially since he could barely remember what life had been like prior to being that person.

Leaning back in his office chair, he bit at his inner lip in consideration, glaring down the packet as though it were plotting against him. Although he may not have explicitly said he would take the pills, he knew that Francis was expecting him to, but he couldn't, not when he knew so little about what they could do.

With a sharp sigh, he shook his head, sitting forward again as he told himself he was overthinking things. The bottom line was that if he didn't want to take them he didn't have to. But they were meant to help, and Francis was just so worried about him.

"Mr Kirkland, I'm so pleased to see you are feeling better," exclaimed a gentle squeaking from the door.

Almost jumping out of his skin, Arthur jolted and quickly grabbed the box from his desktop, shoving it into a draw as though it were contraband.

"Oh, my apologies, I didn't mean to startle you," Erika bowed her head, about to skutter away as abruptly as she had arrived, "It is good to see you, Sir."

"Erika, wait," the older man stopped her, pausing awkwardly when she stood in the doorway with an expectant look.

Clearing his throat, Arthur's eyes rested upon her lightly as he spoke, still so young, barely twenty. The same age as he was when he had signed his soul away to this hollow industry.

"If you don't mind my asking, I was wondering if you plan on staying here long. At this company, that is," he stuttered, hoping it wasn't too personal of a question.

The young woman simply smiled, however, an out of place expression to Arthur given his hatred for the company and clutched the folders she held tighter with a glint of ambition about her.

"Yes, I hope to make a career for myself here, if I can," she enthused.

Arthur stared at her in silence as his heart sunk. He pitied her in all of her hopeful naivete.

"Well, I'd be happy to put in a recommendation for you," he offered out of some sort of need to do at least one good thing that day.

The young woman's face lit up as she inwardly rejoiced. "Thank you, Sir, so much," she showed her appreciation, becoming more expressive than the other had ever seen her before.

"That's quite alright," he smiled back, sadly, "And you can…call me Arthur, if you like."

Beaming, Erika nodded. "Yes, Mr Arthur. Thank you," she trilled, bobbing her head once more as she practically skipped down the hallway and, despite having made the girl's day, Arthur felt as though he had signed her death warrant.

The sound of plastic rattling emanating from his pocket like the sound of machine gun fire, Arthur stiffened whenever it knocked against something and glanced around himself quickly as though someone else would hear and, for whatever reason, judge him. A ridiculous notion, of course, but something about just having it made him uneasy. Every person that so much as turned their head was staring at him, anyone near him could, somehow, tell there was something wrong with him and they hated him for it.

Stepping from the bus into the empty street where the incessant noise echoed, he sped the length of it to his front door. The bag over his shoulder, so weighted with reports he had to catch up with that it had started to cut off the circulation in his arm, hit the ground with a heavy thud as Arthur dropped it by the front door as soon as he crossed the threshold. He hung his coat above it, leaving the box of pills in the pocket.

He bolted the front door behind him, since neither resident would be leaving the house again until the morning and made his way down the hall. Meaning to go upstairs, something on the events calendar that hung on the wall by the entrance caught his attention, a date circled with the reminder 'Engagement Party' under it. The event had crept up on Arthur as he saw it was less than two weeks away, his shoulders sagging with a sigh.

"Ah, I thought I heard you," Francis addressed him as he came down the stairs, "What are we sighing about this time?"

The Frenchman's good-natured ribbing was met with an uninvested hum as his partner glanced over, blank faced.

"I didn't realise the engagement shower was so soon," he spoke his thoughts, "Do we need to get them a gift?"

"Oui, and it is already taken care of," the other informed him, pecking the side of his head.

"Oh, alright then," Arthur wasn't overly concerned with whatever his partner might have gotten on their behalf, probably wine.

"And I made sure to check that Alfred and Matthew both have suits for the occasion," Francis continued, his voice growing fainter as he wandered to the kitchen.

Cocking his head, Arthur looked back at him. "I didn't even know they were invited," he remarked.

A soft chuckle came from the other room as Francis raised an eyebrow in return, his tone amused. "Amour, Feliciano planned this. Half the city and most of Italy are invited."

Lips quirking into a semi smile at the comment, Arthur reached for the invitation, still where he had left it a few weeks previously. Delicately unfurling the paper, he looked for the address where the event was to be held, somewhat surprised to see it was only at the local recreation centre. He had expected something more flamboyant from the Italian but, then again, there was most likely a fair bit of compromising done by Ludwig.

"You have a black suit you can wear, right?" Francis called, "It says the dress code is black tie."

"I have one somewhere," Arthur mumbled, paying more attention to the embellished writing than the person he spoke to.

"Alright, well, I do not have anything that is quite appropriate, so I will have to find something before then. I will spare you the agony of accompanying me, though," the older man rambled on in the background but received no reply.

Poking his head around the corner to see his lover staring down at the paper in his hands, seemingly in a world of his own, he called to him gently.

"Are you listening?" he questioned the other's turned back.

Head springing up in a strange sort of manner, the smaller man turned his body to face him. "Yes," he stated with a peculiar blink.

Watching him closely, Francis' brow twitched, almost frowning, however, he showed no outward reaction, instead leaning against the doorframe, keeping his tone relaxed when he spoke.

"So, how have you been? Any better?" he carefully alluded.

The back of his neck immediately becoming hot with shame, Arthur found himself unable to tell the truth, even though there was no harm in doing so.

"Not really," he lowered his voice as he lied, "I think it takes some time."

Nodding with a contemplative look, Francis offered an encouraging smile. "Most things do," he mused.

A shallow imitation of his expression was reflected off the face of the other as Arthur's gaze fell. Putting the envelope back where he had found it, he studied at the calendar once more, committing the date to memory, ignoring the date in December that was circled, and escaped to another room.

Arthur had never been adept at outright lying to those he cared about most. A few harmless mistruths here and there to spare a person's feelings or to put their minds at ease but no more than that, by his reasoning at least. It wasn't even that he felt s particular need to always tell the truth, more that nothing happened in his life that warranted lying about, a sad thought when he realised how boring that made him sound.

Alone, Arthur pulled out his phone, opening a private tab on his browser and angling his body away from the doorway, so that there was no chance of Francis catching a glimpse of the screen if he came past, as he typed in the name of the brand from the box still in his coat pocket. Immediately bombarded by columns, adverts and blogs, Arthur was quite taken aback by the sheer volume of information.

Titles of opinion pieces praising or condemning the use of such help, people who swore by the pills with such vehemence it was slightly concerning and others that acted as though they were the devil's work. Sensationalised newspaper segments that claimed to expose 'What You Don't Know' about this or that, as though they were the authority on such things, and alleged professionals giving their skewed advice over message boards. Some medical sites gave him hope yet turned out to be only marginally helpful, offering straight facts but, ultimately, no reassurance of whether taking the damn medication may actually work.

He knew the internet was no place to be looking for impartial advice since anyone with a keyboard and an opinion was given an audience, but he felt as though he had stumbled into a minefield. It seemed that the more controversial the topic of discussion the less nuanced the arguments were, black or white with no middle ground. It made it impossible to find anything at all rational. Regardless of what he found, however, the choice was up to Arthur and he let out a heavy breath as he closed out of the search having found no help.

Being at work after a full week out of the office took minimal adjustment, the old routine still there and waiting for him, and, as expected, the workload hadn't eased up in his absence. By the looks of the towering stack of documents left in his incoming mail tray, it seemed he would be sacrificing his weekend and most of his evenings to the unappeasable trudge of menial progress. Whereas before he could see work as a distraction, now, after a week spent in self-reflection, it was an all-consuming beast that snapped at his ankles if he dared to slow down while every other anxiety continued to nag him.

Each night returning home a little later to the same sympathetic critique of 'you should not work so hard', Arthur would just quirk his lips lathargically, blinking back the fatigue behind his eyes in an attempt to appear as though his mental state were improving. To his relief, Francis rarely referenced the prescription that remained unopened in his brief case. It was obvious how self-conscious he was about the situation and he was grateful that his partner was able to pick up on that, causing him to stay mostly quiet on the subject.

This silence, however, only served to add to the brewing pot of guilt inside the younger man as he was increasingly aware of how he was taking advantage of the other's trusting nature by deceiving him. Whenever the dreaded topic was brought up, he would give curt, guarded responses and leave the room shortly thereafter, disappearing to collect himself. While it may have seemed ridiculous to be so torn up over what was, in truth, far from the worst crime he could have committed against his other half, there was something about the betrayal of lying to him when he only wished to help that got to Arthur deep in his core. The whole sequence leaving him more unravelled than before, Arthur was forced to act as though everything had gone back to normal.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him, although he didn't much feel like looking on it with humour. That night when Francis had confronted him, while he had been terrified of exploring his own feelings, there had been the slightest sliver of optimism awakened in him. Someone had forced out of him what he had kept hidden from even himself and because of this there seemed to be the chance of a resolution.

But, through his own inability to simply express himself for fear of upsetting others or of accepting help or some subliminal desire for self-destruction, he had squandered his chances and left himself in a position worse than where he had started. The disappointment of it stung and he cursed himself for being so foolish as to believe he may be able to take control of anything so easily.

Life continued to spiral in way that he was used to and, before he knew it, the weekend was halfway over. Slumped over his desk late on Saturday afternoon, he stared, eyes glazed over, at his computer screen, at the thousandth blank document of the day waiting to be filled in, the reflection of his facial features just offset from the ordered boxes so that they were sliced through by cage like lines. Referring to the physical papers he had on his desk, he typed up what was already there, a redundant action that he wasn't going to question since his income depended on it.

His gaze drifting from his task to the time, he felt no particular reaction. It had just gone half five, not the latest he had been there that week, but he considered leaving, since no matter how much he got through that night the rest would still be there for him in the morning. Slipping perpetually further behind, it had become a matter of keeping up enough to not get fired rather than excelling long ago. Resignation sinking in him, he ploughed on nonetheless.

A while longer drifted by, the clacking of keyboards dying down, the lights of offices alongside his own going dark, and Arthur seemed to be in some sort of autonomous fugue state, his pace never lessening as his glazed over eyes watched without blinking. Each time one of his fellow desk dwellers left their cubicle, switching off their lamps and monitors, the bulb above him would flicker with a frazzled buzz. Occasionally he would hear snippets of conversation as people passed by his door on their way out, not one person sticking their head in to say goodbye. Even if they had, he most likely wouldn't have responded as he inhabited a different plane of reality to those around him, a world that stretched as far as the perimeters of his computer screen.

However, he was torn from his daze by a sardonic knocking at the already opened door, a body loitering outside.

"Hello? Back to Earth now please, I have been trying to get to you for hours," a disgruntled Frenchman called out to him, gaining his attention.

Squeezing his eyelids together several times, a stinging sensation making his eyes to water a little, Arthur looked to his partner in mild confusion and then to his phone, as though he needed proof of the fact. At least ten messages received at varying points in the day showed him that Francis had the right to be somewhat frustrated and he shot back an apologetic look.

"Sorry, I was sort of busy," he weakly excused with a nod towards the stacks of papers that surrounded him like a fortress.

Sympathy registered on the face of the other and his irate stance softened.

"I keep telling you to just leave it," he gently reprimanded to which Arthur pulled a tight-lipped expression of no discernible meaning.

With a brief exhale, Francis came into the room, strolling over to the desk, his face hardening again ever so slightly.

"But anyway, that is not why I came here," he folded his arms, his tone taking on an edge that made Arthur look up with quizzical apprehension, "You lied to me."

Heart skipping a beat at the accusation, the guilty party's mind instantly went to the sealed packet in his briefcase. He had no idea how Francis had found out, but it had only been a matter of time and remorse began to redden his ears. Readying an apology along with an explanation, his worries were put to rest as the other finished his statement.

"I checked the wardrobe and you have nothing to wear for Friday," the older man exposed with a disapproving look.

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Arthur was able to come to his own defence. "Yes, I do, a black suit. It's hung up at the back."

Another look was sent his way, one of unimpressed exasperation this time.

"Non, I am drawing a line," Francis disciplined with a pointed stare, "You are not wearing the suit you bought for your mother's funeral to an engagement party."

"It's black and it's a suit, it meets the criteria, doesn't it?" the other replied insouciantly.

"It is too morbid, Arthur. I will not allow it," Francis stood firm on his point.

"Well, then I'll wear this," Arthur shrugged, referencing the thick, grey suit that he wore.

A scoffed laugh came from the taller man who raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"No, you will not," he told him.

"What's so wrong with it?" the younger man looked down at himself.

Eyeing him judgementally, Francis was unmerciful in his critique. "It is ugly and cheap, and it does not match the dress code," his scathing review was met by an indignant frown. Tilting his head to the side with his most endearing eyes, he persuaded again, knowing the reason that his partner hesitated. "We have a disposable income now, you know. No more debts, no more hungry teenagers to feed, you can afford to get yourself a nice suit for a nice occasion."

Swayed by this, Arthur chewed at his cheek before relenting. "Alright then, fine. Could this conversation not have waited until I was home though?"

Beaming at having gotten his way, Francis stepped away from the desk he had been leaning over. "The mall is open late tonight, so we are going now, no arguments," he announced, turning and walking from the room, pausing in the doorway with a quick, "Come along," before disappearing around the corner so that the other was forced to follow him.

Arthur knew that he was waiting around the corner for him but hurried to gather his belongings and close up the room anyway, eager to be out of the place. Meeting up in the hallway, the pair left the building together, speeding through the dark and dank streets to catch a bus to their local mall.

The building was surprisingly busy for that time in the evening and a majority of the shops remained open. A pinch of empathy registered in Arthur on behalf of the shop workers being made to stay late on a weekend. Having worked full time in a handful of different stores before he had landed his current job, he remembered all too vividly how agonising the late shifts could be. Whether he would take that back over what he had now, though, he couldn't say.

Strolling down the centre of the outdated building, browsing shop windows with minimal interest as they went, the couple headed directly to the outlet they had come for. Its display looked promising, showcasing some decent pieces at acceptable prices, although, Arthur was sure that Francis would still manage to find the most expensive thing in there.

The interior was designed to give the illusion of luxury despite being located in a fairly low budget mall, the walls lined with wooden draws that contained smaller items and the latest fashions set out on tables. Perusing what was on offer at a leisurely pace, the couple made a circuit of the shop, Arthur picking out only one suit that he deemed good enough while Francis had his arms piled high with garments, quick to take anything that caught his eye.

Eventually, they made it to the changing rooms, the older of the two taking half the store's stock with him. Going into one of the little cubicles with his single selection, Arthur was halted.

"Wait, take these with you," Francis held out another two outfits, smiling enthusiastically when he was sent an antagonising glance. "What sort of person only tries on one thing," he chastised.

"A person that doesn't want to be out shopping at seven on a Saturday," Arthur sniped, taking the clothes and drawing the curtain over.

Hanging the suits up on the peg provided for him, Arthur set free a long-held breath, quietly so that his lover wouldn't hear it through the cloth that separated them. He dropped his bag in the corner and sat on the bench to remove his shoes, finding it harder than he should to stand up again.

Mirrors adorned two of the three walls that surrounded him so that he had no choice but to see himself in more detail than he had in a while. He could have cringed at the sight of his own body and so dressed quickly in the first of his choice.

"Are you dressed? Let me see," his partner demanded from the other side of the fabric wall.

Staring in tempered disgust a short while longer, he straightened his collar and drew back the curtain the reveal himself.

"How's this?" he asked with very little investment in his words.

The other hummed, his hand on his chin as he nodded thoughtfully. "Turn around," he ordered, to which Arthur rolled his eyes but complied, having to hold his trousers up so that he didn't get in trouble for indecent exposure in a public place.

After some careful consideration, Francis reached his verdict. "I do not like the shape it gives you, try another," he concluded.

Retreating back into the cubicle, Arthur stripped himself of the one suit he had chosen and tried another, wincing at the price tag as he did so. While it may not have been extortionate, there were one too many digits for him to feel it was value for money. Then again, he would probably wear it more than once, so perhaps it was worth a few extra pounds. Shaking his head, he slipped the jacket on, rolling his shoulders and finding he liked how it fitted. A little wide across the back, but he didn't mind since it gave him the illusion of being less scrawny.

The price still bothered him, though. However much he assured and reassured himself that he could afford things now, that he didn't have to budget every detail of his life like he had been for the past six years, he couldn't escape the mindset of being poor. It was a way of life, one that he had been living for so long he found it hard to release himself from its shackles. He decided to see what his critic thought before setting his mind on his purchase, though, and smoothed out the creases on his shirt as he went to show off the new ensemble.

Perking up at the sight, the older man's mouth curved upwards in approval, his eyes like hot, melted butter as they poured over what he saw.

"Très agréable, mon cher," he praised.

Uncomfortable under the way he was being looked at in public, Arthur gave a stiff nod to signal he liked it too and turned around to disappear again.

"Even better from the back," he heard remarked from behind and glanced over his shoulder to give a half-hearted glower as he concealed himself to the sound of lude chuckles.

Keeping the same shirt on so that he could avoid his reflection as he changed into his final option, Arthur had to stifle a yawn. Waking at the crack of dawn every day for a week after extended time off was draining to say the least and his sleep schedule had been well and truly ruined. He found himself nodding off at his desk several times a day and almost fell asleep on some stranger's shoulder on the bus ride home most afternoons.

Arms aching as he shrugged on the last blazer, he showed the man he needed to please his last get up.

"Mmm," Francis hummed, squinting as he looked his lover up and down, making a motion for him to turn, which he did, "Perhaps you should try the jacket from the last one with these trousers."

"Francis, please," Arthur let his exhaustion get the better of him, his shoulders sagging as he urged for the excruciating experience of shopping with his significant other to come to an end.

"Alright, alright," the other relinquished, standing and taking his small mountain of clothes into the changing room opposite the one Arthur used, "I like the second one the best," he gave his opinion but left his partner to decide.

Changing back into his own suit, Arthur decided on the second choice despite it being slightly more than he would have liked to pay, leaving the other two hung on the wall for some poor, underpaid sales assistant to take back later.

He came out with his chosen garment and sat on the bench between the changing rooms where Francis had been perched, stretching his arms. They were cramped stiff after hours of being hunched over a keyboard and the bones in his elbows ground together when he extended them fully. His body collapsing under its own weight as he relaxed on the cushioned seat, Arthur gave in to the various pains that plagued him, well aware that they came mostly from his muscles being overtired and underused.

"How is this?"

Head snapping up at the question, Arthur came back to his senses and he realised he had been about to drift off.

"Yes, good, it's nice," he fumbled his words, rubbing his eyes to try and will himself to wake up.

"Really?" Francis was sceptical, turning to see himself from every angle he could in the mirror, "I am not so sure."

"No, I like it," Arthur's monotonous voice was unconvincing, but Francis didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with his crucial decision.

"I still have a few others to try," the Frenchman mused, "I promise I will be quick."

The curtain blocked his sight once more and Arthur deflated back into his seat, running his hands down his face. Another yawn threatened its way out and he caught it in the crook of his arm, his head becoming fuzzy from the pressure, a ringing picking up in his ear that gradually lessened and faded.

Eyelids drooping every so often, the slumped heap of a person would tear them apart with all the will power he possessed and prop himself back up with some help from the arm rest. Balancing his chin in his palm with his elbow atop the wooden surface, he made mumbled sounds of affirmation when something incoherent to him was called from inside the changing room while his mind slipped away to some place quieter. His head too stuffed with junk to come up with anything creative, he daydreamed of a silent, white expanse, able to block out the noise of the surrounding mall. A warmth softened his brain, the physical world dematerialising around him.

Something hard pressing against his shoulder caused him to jerk awake again as he found himself almost laid out flat along the sofa. There was no one around to see, but still he felt his ears burn. He was utterly spent, his heart taking an effort to beat in his chest, and still had a full week of work plus a social event to attend before he was allowed an all too brief respite, only for it all to carry on afterwards. While he had stopped fighting the current that dragged him along without mercy he still had to fight his way to the surface to breath and he was running out of energy to do so. He would have done anything to simply not be tired anymore.

As though a signal emanated from it, his weary eyes drifted to his briefcase, knowing what was inside. It shouldn't have been so hard in theory; take the pills and solve his problems. Most of the sites he had visited during his multiple internet searches featured people saying how they had helped with energy levels, making it easier to get through the morning, or gave them some form of mental strength.

It was enticing but still he paused. All his life adults had shoved the idea that happiness comes from within down his throat. Have faith in yourself and be independent. Maybe his worldview was off, but it didn't seem healthy to be reliant on a substance to get by. He didn't think that he would get addicted to them but, at the same time, he lacked self-control when it came to things like that and he worried that if he couldn't help himself without them he would be stuck taking them for the rest of his life.

But he was so tired. He felt his resolve cracking as he reached into his bag. Turning the box over in his hands, he studied it like he expected the label to peel off and reveal some sinister warning, exposing the ulterior motives of those evil pharmaceutical companies.

Of course, no such thing happened. Tapping at the case with his bitten nails, he heard the contents jiggling inside. He decided that, perhaps, if he saw what was actually in there he may not find them so intimidating and so, with apprehension boiling in his throat, he unfolded the tab at one end and pulled out the foil covered sheet inside.

They were smaller than he had pictured, and sort of oblong shape. He couldn't see the colour through the white plastic, not that it much mattered, but they appeared to be like any other tablet he had taken. Probably because they were like any other tablet he had taken. There was nothing inherently bad about them, after all, they were an aid to healing, like every medication in existence, the only difference being that these were for a sickness in the mind rather than the body.

Slowly talking himself around, Arthur checked that Francis was still busy before snapping the covering of one of the capsules, a faintly alkaline scent reaching his nose, reminiscent of his old school's science classrooms. He wanted to be better. There was no way he could sustain the way he currently lived. Not to say he planned on doing anything that may jeopardise himself but, when he thought about it, he supposed he wasn't doing himself any favours.

Tipping the tablet out into his hand, he looked at it for a moment, all thoughts disintegrating from his mind as he raised his hand to his mouth and swallowed without letting the pill touch his tongue. He grimaced at the sensation, choking a little when it became lodged halfway down his windpipe, and tried forcing it back harder. The obstruction grating his insides as it made its way down was not the only sinking feeling he endured.

Chest burning as he finally got the pill down, Arthur wiped away the moisture that had collected in the corners of his eyes and tucked the evidence into his pocket. Letting out a juddering breath, he reclined back into his seat once more, noticing how his heart sped but soon slowed back to its natural pace. While there may not have been an instantaneous effect, he knew something was different.

"I think I have made my choice," Francis prefaced his entrance, stepping out looking rather pleased with himself, "What do you think? I would usually go with something more fitted, but this winter has not been so kind to my waistline."

Nodding with glassy eyes, Arthur looked through him. "You look good," he agreed.

"Merci, this one it is, then. And thank you for being so patient, I appreciate it," he added as he went back through the curtain.

Gaze still fixed and hollow, watching where the other had been, Arthur muttered, "Not a problem."

They paid together, the number that came out on the receipt almost giving Arthur a heart attack and made it home at a reasonable time. Going upstairs to bed as soon as they came through the front door, Arthur slung his work clothes onto the chair in the corner, hearing that tell-tale sound when the box in his pocket made contact.

He still felt no different but the information on the packet had said it could take around a week to start feeling the effects of the medication, and this was sort of comforting to him. It would give him the chance to adjust at his own pace, a little better each day, just another thing to slot into his routine. Although he had reservations, it seemed manageable and that was something he hadn't thought in months.

Leaving the box in his jacket, planning to take his intended dose at work, Arthur turned in for the day several hours before Francis made it upstairs, as he had the rest of that week. He felt a little guilty over having spent practically no time with his significant other, however, he was hardly the most desirable company in his current state, barely more than a sentient cadaver ambling about. Survival without life. He could remember being that way back in his school days, around the time of exams where all he seemed to do was study, sleep and eat. Back when he believed that adulthood would be different. By the time the other did make it to bed he was out cold, dreams of dark, warm rooms and silence too pleasant to be woken from by a gentle peck on the cheek.

Nine hours of sleep having the same effect as nine minutes, Arthur made it through his morning regimen, getting into the office at the same time he would any regular week day. As busy as it ever was, he truly doubted that time moved the same within those walls as he sat at his desk, taking out the pills and popping one into his palm. Waiting for the people outside his door to leave before gulping it back with a sip of tea, he was surprised by how easily it went down this time, like his body had decided to accept them and found that, with each passing day, it became easier still. The new addition engrained into his scheduled programming after half the week had gone by, he no longer questioned the action.

He didn't know what he had expected them to do, he wouldn't have been happy with whatever it was, yet was disappointed in finding that nothing changed. Aside from his nightly headache being a little more violent, he was the same as ever and he couldn't help but feel somewhat cheated. After so much strife he was expecting some sort of a reaction. Even a negative effect would have been better than nothing, at least then he would know that they didn't work and could count them out as a solution, but he couldn't do anything with this. They weren't making him any better but, at the same time, he was no worse, so maybe they were doing something that he just couldn't detect?

Scouring the internet again for any help after five days of trying the medication, he continued to come up short of anything useful. So many mixed opinions made for extensive yet unreliable advice and, out of frustration, Arthur swore off using technology in his search for answers. Reading and rereading both the box and the safety leaflet inside, wondering if he had managed to do something wrong, his irritation boiled over and he screwed up the paper, tossing it into the bin in anger. He researched the drug by name, brand, manufacturer but no amount of facts could account for the way he felt, every site stating that effects would vary.

Though he was no longer guilt ridden over lying to Francis, a new emotion kept him preoccupied, the fear that nothing would work. What started out as a passing thought one day became an underlying yet near crippling problem as he would often find himself plummeting into a chasm of his own anxieties. Perhaps he was overreacting, but medication had been a last resort for him and it wasn't doing anything, the realisation leading to the worry that he was beyond help.

Expelling the thought with a heavy breath as this cycle began to repeat for the twentieth time that day, Arthur stood from where he was sat on the edge of his mattress staring into space and went to the mirror. He flipped up the collar of his pristine, white shirt and draped the tie he held around his neck, tying a simple knot. Straightening himself out as though it made any difference to his haggard appearance, the nose on the face of the reflected man wrinkled in distaste.

"Alfred and Matthew said they will be here in five minutes," Francis informed as he came into the room. Looking up from his phone to lay eyes upon his lover, a gentle simper graced his lips, his expression soft as a rose petal as he gazed at the other.

A frown lightly creasing Arthur's forehead, he looked over briefly, eyes flitting away as soon as they met the ones that looked at his as though he were some treasured family heirloom.

"What?" he demanded when Francis said nothing more.

Shoulder rising and falling in a nonchalant shrug, the older man's smile stretched a little wider. "I like looking at beautiful things," he stated simply.

An endeared chuckle slipped from his throat as he watched his partner roll his eyes and begin to fuss over himself in the mirror.

"You really should have done something with your hair though," he clucked, coming closer to adjust his tie, "It is becoming unruly."

"Says you," Arthur snorted, allowing himself to be preened.

"My hair is timeless and chic whereas yours," he paused to tap a finger on the end of the smaller man's slender nose, "looks like a crow's nest."

Nose twitching like a rabbits' at the contact, Arthur scowled. "At least I bothered to shave," he pointed out.

"But do you not see how some stuble adds a touch of rugged masculinity?"

Managing to be sarcastic without speaking a word, Arthur raised an eyebrow at the use of two adjectives he had never once associated with his partner.

"Do not raise those caterpillars at me, mon cher, we both know I look good," Francis lilted, in high spirits as he looked forward to the event, something that Arthur envied him for. Running his hands over the smaller man's chest to cup the back of his neck where he twirled a few strands of the overgrown mop between his fingers, adoration fogged Francis' gaze. "As do you," he hummed.

Squirming internally at the affection, Arthur gave a stiff smile and looked away. Fortunately, he was spared the loving torture as there was a knocking at the door, signalling the arrival of the rest of their party.

"I'll get it," he took the chance to slip from the other's grasp, leaving him alone in the bedroom as he descended the stairs.

Again, a thumping on the wood sounded, harder than before as Alfred became impatient.

"I'll thank you not to put a hole through my door, please," Arthur snapped as he opened it to let his brother in.

"Sorry dude, but I was freezing my freaking ass off out there," Alfred complained as he pushed past the smaller man into the warmth of the hallway, Matthew following behind.

"Why aren't you wearing a coat? It is winter, you realise," the elder Kirkland commented on his brother's lack of appropriate clothing.

"I know right, like, who chooses to have a party at the coldest time of year," the American showed his disapproval of their host's planning skills to which Arthur tiredly rolled his eyes.

"Stop complaining, Al, it's not that cold out," Matthew sounded equally as weary with his brother as Arthur did, turning to him with a disparaging sigh, "He's been like this all week."

The all too relatable feeling teased a smile from the older man. "Are you ready to go?" he asked, looking at both in turn, noticing something missing the older twin's outfit, "Alfred, do you not have a tie?"

"Oh, yeah, right," he seemed to remember, pulling an untied bowtie from his blazer pocket and holding it out with his sweetest pout, "You mind?"

"Dear God, you're almost twenty, you should be able to tie your own tie by now," Arthur chided, taking the strip of material nonetheless.

"I can tie a tie, that's a bowtie, they're way harder," Alfred pedantically defended, ducking so that his brother could loop it around his neck.

Sending him the deadpanned glare, Arthur fastened the bowtie. "Then buy a tie," he tutted, reaching up to attempt to flatten the little spike of hair that continually fell out of line atop the younger man's head, lip curling when his hand came away slathered in gel.

"Can't, I'm saving for America," Alfred, as always, didn't take the snide tone to heart.

Arthur only gave a faintly vexed grunt as he went over to Matthew, signalling for him to turn and face him so that that he could fuss over the symmetry of his collar.

"Oh, si jolie, how nice we all look," Francis sung as he came down to join them.

"Thanks man. Did you put our names on the gift?" Alfred asked with a hopeful look.

"Oui and I just called the cab," the Frenchman replied as he fetched the overpriced bottle of champagne from the kitchen counter.

Brushing a final particle of dust from Matthew's shoulder, Arthur gave an approving nod and went upstairs to collect his jacket. He pulled it on, adjusting the way it sat across his shoulders and giving himself a once over in the mirror, his frame slumping when he realised nothing he could do short of surgery could fix how he looked, almost shuddering as he thought of how Francis still found him physically appealing.

He ran his fingers through his hair, finding it longer than he thought it was, and let his hand rest on the back of his head as he watched himself in the mirror, unfeeling. The medication he had been putting off taking that day sat hidden beneath one of the shirts on the chair and he uncovered it to take one, hardly noticing as it went down. About to put it back in its hiding spot, Arthur paused, glancing down at the pack. Although he could practically recite what was written on it by that point, his eyes drifted to the recommended dosage section, trailing over the words.

Between one and three pills. Tempting. Too tempting. They were still drugs, he told himself, even if they were prescription, and, although they may not have any serious side effects he still had to be careful. But, if the minimum dosage wasn't working then the logical next step seemed obvious. His lips twitched as he considered it, picking at the edge of the box.

"Arthur, cab's here," the call of his brother broke his concentration.

Eyes jumping from the box in his hand to his reflection then back down, Arthur gave it a final second's thought before pocketing it and hurrying downstairs to where his family was waiting in the car.

The local recreation centre where the event was to be held wasn't far off and, although the whole town referred to it as a rec centre, it was more of an all-purpose hall of a nondescript nature than anything specific. Not the sort of place anyone had pictured Feliciano holding any sort of occasion, however, on entering, the group was shocked to find the space totally transformed.

Above them the ceiling was draped in great swathes of billowing linen as though a cloudy summer sky had been wrangled inside, the walls decorated similarly, the white, gossamer fabric bunched up into bows with their tails streaming to the floor. Flowers of uncountable species coloured in varying shades of cream and pink sat in baskets throughout the hall, their perfume masking the scent of musty wood that usually filled the space. At one end some sort of music board was set up, light jazz infusing the air to which couples danced, at the other was a bar and between them were small, round tables, set in white cloth with centre pieces.

A gasp and subsequent exhale of utter ecstasy came from behind and Arthur turned back to see his partner, hands clasped and moony eyed, staring in awe.

"That man can truly work wonders," he gushed, his romantic tendencies being thoroughly indulged.

"He probably had planners do it," Arthur voiced his doubt, "It is rather impressive, though."

"Jeez, I'll say," Alfred voiced with a whistle, "Didn't look this nice at our prom, eh Mattie."

The man addressed shook his head in agreeance as the group ventured further in, coming across a table against the wall stacked with gifts. Their single bag looked a little frugal next to some of the larger, more extravagantly shaped packages but Arthur told himself it was the thought that counted, not that he had put in a lot of that.

They left it amongst the grander tributes and Arthur followed the others as they skirted around the edge of the hall, however, his eye caught something that made him pause momentarily. A frame that stood at the other end of the table containing a picture of an elderly man that he recognised as Ludwig and Gilbert's late grandfather. The kindly, weathered face held an uncanny resemblance to the younger of the brothers and Arthur found something in his chest warmed by the uncharacteristic show of sentiment on his part.

Aiming for one of the tables, the four of them meandered amongst the other guests, avoiding the dancefloor that seemed to be occupied by half the Vatican, and would have made it had they not been spotted by an eagle eyed Hungarian.

"My goodness, don't we all look fancy tonight," Elizabeta cooed as she sashayed towards them, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

"Oh cherie, I am afraid that compliment must go to you," Francis suavely declined in a way that could have been mistaken for a wandering eye, taking her hand to kiss.

With a tinkling laugh, she allowed herself to be admired before taking her arm back. "I may be a heart breaker, but I am not a homewrecker, Mr Bonnefoy," she teased, smirking, as she moved on to the man beside him.

"You do look stunning, Liz," Arthur persisted to flatter her, noting how her gaze fell somewhat bashfully and her smile stretched a little wider at his words, as though the compliment meant more coming from him.

"This old thing," she joked in reference to the emerald velour that clung to her body in the most enticing ways as she leant in to peck both cheeks in greeting, "And look how handsome, all dressed up in your little suits," she squealed, turning to the younger pair.

"Little?" Arthur knitted his brow at the expression.

Hugging the older woman, the twins displayed their happiness to see her with broad grins and she glanced back to look around the group.

"You must come and sit with us, Toni is already here too," she instructed, leading the way to a table at the edge of the dancefloor which was already occupied.

Antonio rose with his arms extended as they approached, dealing out hugs with fervent slaps on the back.

"Isn't it a great day!" he enthused, "Everybody made it! Hey, espera un minuto." Cupping both hands to his mouth, the Spaniard turned to the crowd, calling out the name of the man missing from their reunion.

A silver head popped up above the rest of the bodies that filled the hall and pointed in their direction, flashing them a grin before ducking down out of view again. Shortly after, a path cleared around them as their friend bounded through with the energy of a nuclear-powered puppy.

"Hey, there you guys are, we're so glad you made it," he thanked on behalf of his brother, teeth bared and eyes shining, clearly enjoying the festivities.

"How could we miss this?" Francis looked around himself to emphasise his sense of wonder, "Feli has outdone himself."

"Ja, I think the kid put more effort into this than everything else he's done in his life combined," Gilbert poked a light bit of fun at his soon to be brother in law, "West regretted not being more involved when he saw the bill, though."

"You tell him to give Feli what he wants, it was worth every penny, you couldn't hope for a better atmosphere," Elizabeta sighed, gazing out to the dancefloor with a blithe glint in her eye. "Oh Alfie, won't you come and dance with your Auntie Liza," she crooned, taking the younger man by the hand before he had a chance to argue, "It's been so long since I've had a tall, handsome man at my side."

Meeting the mischievous glance he was shot from the woman with narrowed eyes, Gilbert watched them sweep onto the floor but tore his eyes away swiftly.

"So, how is he coping with all this?" Arthur enquired after the more introverted of the Beilschmidt's.

"Let's just say, for once he's not so embarrassed to have his loudmouthed older brother around," the older man chuckled. Throwing a look over his shoulder back in the direction he had come from, he smiled to himself and shook his head. "I should get back to them actually, I promised I'd help chaperone. Champagne is on the house tonight," he left them with a wink, speeding back to his brother's aid.

"He certainly seems in a pleasant mood," Francis commented as the back of the platinum head disappeared into the thrush.

"Everybody is, amigo, it's a wonderful occasion!" Antonio rejoiced to his friends, "You stay here, I'm getting us some drinks."

He left them to mind the table, heading towards the bar to procure the free liquor, Matthew deciding to help and following behind.

"Are you sure you should be drinking?" Francis queried with a light frown, "With the medication."

The thought hadn't occurred to Arthur and, although he hadn't planned on drinking too much that night he regretted remembering to take it that day.

"I'm sure one won't hurt," he dispelled.

"Alright," the other conceded, "I will limit myself also, I think."

Arthur made a vague humming sound to feign attention as he watched the couples out on the open floor, swaying in time to the slow beat. Somewhere in the middle of the cluster, Eliza and Alfred kept coming into view between other couples, carefree laughter easily tumbling from them, audible all the way from where Arthur sat.

Line of vision alternating between the hall and his partner, Francis leant his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his knuckles as his eyes settled softly upon his object of desire. "Will you dance with me later?" he requested innocently.

"No," came his straight answer as he received a side glance from the man beside him.

Exhaling heavily from his nostrils, the older man continued to watch his lover, observing the impassive expression he held.

"I do not understand how you can still have such a sour face. Do you not think it is nice?"

Two muted, green balls turned to him briefly then went back to overseeing the happenings of the evening absently.

"I do," was all he offered.

Glasses were placed on the table as the other two returned with their bounty, both taking seats at the table. Grasping one of the delicate flutes by the stem, mostly to give his hands something to do, Arthur took a sip. The drink left his mouth dry once he swallowed it, instinctually causing him to take another taste, this, of course, having the same effect.

Holding the crystal ware delicately between his fingers, he spent a moment watching how the bubbles continued to rise, seemingly out of nothing, like a tiny air jet was at the bottom of the glass. Mesmerised, he allowed the conversation around him to flow without his input, eventually looking up to try and locate his brother out on the dance floor once more. Brows furrowing in confusion when he saw the younger man, he found he appeared to be dancing with a very small, very elderly woman, face bright as ever as he nodded along whatever she was telling him as he hunched over to shuffle around the floor with her.

Such a pure image helped to alleviate Arthur's dour mood and something akin to pride swelled in him at the thought of having had a hand in raising such a kind-hearted person. However, he knew most of the credit for that should rightfully go to the woman that had instilled a strong sense of human decency into all three of her sons.

An amused chuckle came from his side and he looked to see that Francis was watching the same scene.

"That boy could charm anyone," he commended.

Shaking his head, Arthur let slip a breathy laugh of his own. "I don't know how he does it," he admitted, sipping the drink he wasn't enjoying.

Eyes wandering about the hall, he could put names to most of the faces he came across. A lot of his colleagues were in attendance and he hoped this wasn't because Ludwig had no friends outside of the office. The couple they were there to celebrate were nowhere in sight, but Arthur hadn't expected to spend any time with them, well aware that he was probably just a seat filler for Ludwig's side of the church when the wedding came.

"Making friends, I see," Francis jested as Alfred made his way over, "Who was that?"

Shrugging, unfazed, the teen helped himself to a sip from one of the glasses at the table. "No idea, she only spoke Italian," he sat himself down between his brothers, removing his blazer and slinging it over the back of the chair, "Those Vargas' can party, I'm telling you."

"If you think this is a lot just wait until the big day," Antonio warned with his eyebrows held aloft.

"What have you done with Eliza?" Francis enquired as to the whereabouts of the lady he had last been seen with, "I am in the mood for dancing."

"Not sure, that guy Roderich came and took her away," Alfred recounted, scouring the hall for any sign of the illusive woman, "I saw her over…" his voice trailed off, prompting the others to look at him questioningly then follow his line of view to whatever had made him stop short.

Four thoroughly unimpressed pairs of eyes were aimed in his direction once they located the source of his distraction.

"You so much as think about it, Alfred, and I swear to God," Arthur threatened, narrowed glare boring into the side of his brother's skull.

"I'm not thinking about anything, I just didn't know she was here," the younger man's words petered away again, turning to a mumbled hum, "She looks good…"

Across the hall, Natalia stood beside her sister, face straight as she engaged in conversation with some stranger, oblivious of the fact she was under intense surveillance. One of her pale hands held a glass of red wine while the other played with a strand of her snowy hair, an action Alfred didn't realise he was subconsciously mimicking, as she leant disinterestedly against the wall.

"It doesn't matter how she looks, you shouldn't be looking at her," his elder sibling scolded, steely tone doing little to dampen Alfred's fancy.

Stripping his gaze from the young woman only to have it flick back every few seconds he found his attentions drawn to her as though magnetised.

"I'm not looking at her," he lied to himself, hand moving from his hair to his lips where he bit nervously at the nail of his thumb. "You haven't heard if she's seeing anyone, have you?"

Exasperated vocalisations erupted from the group around him.

"You've got to be kidding," Matthew sent him a condemning look to rival Arthur's.

"Please, it hurts to watch," Antonio groaned from behind the hands that covered his face.

Alfred's gaze dropped at the sounds of despair around him, head still angled in the direction of his past lover, hands falling to his lap dejectedly in a moment of unexpected melancholy.

Remorseful looks being exchanged around the table, Francis leaned closer to the younger man, his voice sympathetic as he tried to inject some positivity back into the boy.

"Why should you care if she is or not? I thought you were moving on. What about that Michelle girl, you like her, no?"

Avoiding eye contact, Alfred gave a one shouldered shrug, studying his hands in great detail.

"Yeah, sure, but I don't see that going anywhere," he exhaled.

"Why not? Just last week you were telling us how amazing she is," Arthur pointed out as he saw his brother talking himself out of the relationship.

He took a hissing breath in and looked up, still not meeting anyone's gaze but forcing himself not to look where he clearly wanted to.

"I saw her again and she's still a nice girl and all, but I just didn't get that…" his brown wrinkled as he tried to think of the right word, "That spark. You know what I mean?"

While Arthur went to roll his eyes, Francis nodded gently in understanding of what he meant.

"You haven't given her a fair chance, you need to see someone more than twice to know whether you like them," the Englishman went to argue but found himself at odds with both his brother and his partner.

"On the contrary," Francis interjected before the other could reply, "If you feel nothing for the girl then you cannot will it into being as you would like. There is no point wasting one another's time," he theorised, quick to add, "but that does not mean you should run back to someone who made you miserable for the sake of company."

"Si, you're young, why not spend some time single," Antonio encouraged, receiving an unenthusiastic tilt of the lips from the younger man.

Seeing his sibling still hung up on something that had happened months ago concerned Arthur, it wasn't like him to hold onto things. He had always been so quick to move on, never taking anything too seriously. Perhaps he was finally maturing.

"Really though, Al, you need to stop fawning over girls like this. There are more important things," his well-meant criticism coaxed at least a simper from the other.

"Maybe you should be more worried about the women that are interested in you," the Frenchman snickered, gesturing in the direction of the dance floor where the same old woman was coming towards them with a toothless grin and her arms outstretched. "It seems she likes you," he jibed.

"Oh God," the man in demand chortled quietly, ducking down in his seat like it would save him.

To the infinite amusement of all but the youngest of the group, however, this somehow worked as the woman approached and moved past the boy she aimed for, going to Matthew instead.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry I think you want my brother, I'm not-" he protested, flustered, as the old woman took him by the hand and pulled him from his seat.

Desperate eyes were met only by snorted laughter coming from behind cupped mouths as he was dragged onto the dancefloor by a woman half his height. They watched for a while, the introverted man doing his best to humour his companion with polite conversation while shooting his twin a death glare every time she looked away, providing further entertainment.

Diverting his attention to the twin still present, Arthur was glad to see his downtrodden mood rectified, a grin splitting his mouth at the scene, yet he couldn't help but note the way his eyes seemed to twitch towards the corner where the ghostly white woman lingered.

Cool jazz instrumentals drifted through the air, Francis humming along, slightly off key and tapping his foot in time with the beat. The minute pinching in his ribcage that Arthur had been well acquainted with as of late flared up at the sight of his partner so enthralled by the event when he didn't have the heart to participate, feeling that he had disappointed the ever-patient man once again. Out of habit, he drank deeply from his glass to dull the emotion, forgetting he was meant to be practicing self-control.

"So, when are we going to be throwing one of these for you two?"

Instantly choking on the liquid in his mouth as it seemed to find its way down the wrong hole, Arthur could feel his face heating up while he struggled for breath, his reaction admittedly disproportionate for the simple question.

"Tell us what you really think, why don't you," Alfred sarcastically commented, his eyebrows held high.

"Oh, I believe he has made it quite clear," Francis muttered, arms folded and not nearly as amused.

Calming himself, the flustered man had to clear his throat several times before speaking, his words coming out hoarse.

"Sorry, you just caught me of guard."

A scoffing sigh came from the man at his side while Antonio looked awkwardly between them.

"I was just kidding, buddy. Not trying to rush you into anything," he disclaimed with a playful air.

By the look on his partner's face, however, Arthur could tell he wasn't taking it quite so light-heartedly, a heaviness plaguing him as he tried to take back his indiscretion.

"No, really, I didn't mean anything like that," he stuttered, flinching as he looked to his lover.

"It is alright, cher, I have learned not expect too much from you in that regard," his retort was biting, and Arthur felt the full sting of it, "I am sure if you had it your way we would live our lives in wedlock."

"Is that so?" the brunette appeared genuinely surprised by this, "I always thought you two would be the first to get married."

"Well, I have no objections," Francis uttered, not quite under his breath.

Upper body having turned a noticeable pink, Arthur felt the need to justify himself. "I'm not saying I never want to get married, I just don't see the urgency," he explained himself, "And neither of us are religious so there's not really a point to it."

"You do not need to be religious to make a commitment," Francis posited.

"There are other kinds of commitment," Arthur insisted, "We have joint bank accounts, we bought a bloody house together, we're practically married as it is."

"Dude, stop digging, you've hit Australia," Alfred cut through the exchange before a full-on debate could begin.

"I suppose some of us appreciate the old traditions more than others," the classic romanticist mused, punctuating his thought with a sip of champagne, allowing the rim of the glass to rest against his pillowy lips a moment with an absent expression.

"Sí, if I told mi madre I didn't want to get married she might die on the spot," Antonio aggrandized, "She's always telling me I should go home and find a nice Spanish girl, so we can have the wedding in the same church as her and papa."

"Sounds like everything's planned out for you already. Getting married on some sunny Spanish hillside, I'd take that," Alfred pondered the thought and turned to his brother, head held at an inquisitive tilt. "Do you really never think about it? Like, ever? Not even as a fantasy?"

His disbelieving tone provoked Arthur to quirk a brow in return. "Do you?" he shot back, genuinely curious.

"I'm not saying I obsess over it or anything, but I wonder what I'd want my wedding to be like sometimes," the younger man confessed.

As expected, the hint caught Francis' full attention and he leant forward, urging him to elaborate. "Go on, cherie, you have us intrigued."

Glancing around at the interested faces that watched him, Alfred winced one eye in thought.

"Well, first off, Mattie would have to be my best man," he began, "No offense to you guys but we've got the whole twin thing," he spoke to both of his former guardians, "And my first dance would be to Elvis Presley 'Can't Help Falling in Love with You', that's non-negotiable," his tone was certain as he described his vision with unexpected detail. "I'd want it to be during the summer so that we could have the wedding photos outside because it would be at one of those big, old stately homes that mom used to take us to, you remember?" he looked to Arthur with a reminiscent smile, the older man returning it warmly, "And then, when the sun set, we could let off lanterns over the grounds."

There was a moment's silence wherein he was sent three sets of admittedly impressed expressions before Francis couldn't hold in his abundance of feelings any longer.

"Oh, mon doux garcon, that is the most adorable thing I have ever heard," he gushed, clasping his hands to his cheeks, close to tearing up at the thought, "Who knew you were so romantic. I did manage to teach you something after all."

Chuckling at his reaction, Alfred shook his head as he played down his fantasies. "I don't know, it's just fun to think about."

"You'd better start saving," Arthur quipped.

"But that's where you guys come in," the other grinned, fluttering his eyelashes, prompting a sarcastically barked laugh from his sibling.

As they continued their carefree interactions, the conversation was interrupted when, from the other end of the hall, an explosion of irate, Italian slurs sounded.

Grimacing, Antonio turned his attention to the direction they seemed to be coming from.

"Maybe it's time I checked on Lovi," he thought aloud as he rose from his seat.

The dwindling group sent him looks of empathy and good luck as he departed for the ensuing stress and, once out of sight, Francis stood also, smoothing out his shirt.

"I still feel like dancing tonight," he announced, scanning the room until his gaze fell on his friend, bored half to death by the bespectacled man at another table, "You do not mind?"

Not sure why he was being asked, Arthur shook his head and watched as his significant other approached the brunette woman. Her face glowed with unspoken gratitude as he stole her away, whisking her onto the dancefloor with a natural grace.

Sat in his chair sideways so as to survey the hall, Arthur let his jaw rest on its low, upholstered back as his eyes continued to trail them. They suited one another; the way Francis' hand matched the curve of her waist, the elegant flow of their bodies, legs stepping alongside one another with coordinated ease, they looked a natural couple. Something stirred in him at the sight, not jealousy nor suspicion as they were two of the very few people in the world that he trusted wholeheartedly, but something more shameful, duller. Inadequacy, perhaps, for the fact he couldn't be the one to make his lover smile as he was now, with someone else.

He had always been that way, though, incapable of being so unrestrained. Even when they had first become an item and Francis continually recommended restaurants and parks that they should visit together, pestering him for a 'nice night together', he just hadn't seen the point in such frivolous acts. Where the more passionate of them had accused him of being cold hearted, he simply thought himself pragmatic. Candlelit dinners and kisses in the rain were all well and good but they told you nothing about a person, it was all so superficial, what people assumed love was.

As Arthur saw it, to love was to know the worst of a person. To see them at their lowest, most pathetic point and still want them as much as before. When they had been penniless, working all the hours of the day and barely looking at one another yet still fell asleep in each other's arms, that was love. When they had woken up side by side with clumps of Francis' hair littering the pillow as it started to fall out from stress and all Arthur did was smile and change the sheets, that was love. When Francis had known enough was enough without Arthur having to say a word and forced him into that doctors' office, that was love.

Rings and champagne and an old man with a cross telling two people they could sleep in the same bed; that may make a person happy, but it wasn't love because real emotion runs deeper than any act can convey.

"In your wedding scenario," Arthur spoke to his brother, tone pensive, "Is Natalia the bride?"

"That's the weird thing," a contemplative half frown came to the younger man's face, "I never think about the person I'm marrying because it's not our wedding, it's mine. Like, when I do meet someone I want to marry we'll probably imagine something totally different together, what I told you guys is just something I like to think about. I know it'll probably never happen."

He shouldn't have been surprised to hear something so self-aware come from the other, the boy wasn't stupid, but still, the older man was silently taken aback.

With one last look to his other half, twirling to his heart's content, seemingly lighter for the lack of him, Arthur stood.

"Do you mind watching the table?" he requested of the last person sitting who nodded his consent.

He had lost sight of the couple he spied on, blocked out by the multitude of others who celebrated the joyous occasion uninhibited, and so edged his way between the tables, past the bar and down the little side hall that led to the bathrooms.

The door opened as he reached it and he stood aside to let the man that exited pass him, offering that terse upturn of the lips that strangers exchange, then sped through. Closing himself into one of the cubicles, he lowered the lid of the toilet and sat on it, placing his elbows on his knees so as to lean into his hands with a laboured sigh.

From the moment he had left the house he knew he wasn't going to enjoy himself but that didn't mean he didn't want to. He would have loved to just give himself over to the atmosphere as everyone else seemed capable of doing but even when surrounded by his friends he was still on the outside looking in, imitating. It was draining. Lifting his head to stare with drooping eyes at the back of the stall door he bit his lip, the tattered skin splitting, the taste of blood hitting the tip of his tongue. He licked it away and dabbed at the opening with his blazer sleeve, the crimson stain invisible against the black material.

He stayed in there a while, not doing anything, just staring into space as he thought about how tired he was, taking some time to regain his social stamina before facing the rest of the night. Once no longer in danger of publicly passing out, he emerged from his hiding, standing before the mirror to tighten his tie. The silk pressed against his throat in a way he was used to, felt strange without.

The exhaustion making him numb, he was saddened to find his first impulse was to take the pills from his pocket, looking down to find them in his hands without a second thought. His inner monologue picked up where it had left off, only he found it wasn't much of an argument this time. It wasn't clear whether it was the voice of reason or temptation that urged him to do it, but Arthur found them often to be one and the same when a person was desperate.

He was about to follow the voice's advice when he heard the door swing open and, not wanting to be caught, made to conceal the box in his jacket. However, as he released his hold he found he had missed the pocket he aimed for, the box falling and hitting the ground with a clattering louder to his ears than it actually was. It skidded across the tiled floor to stop a few paces away, closer to the man who had just entered than the man who had dropped it and, as Arthur had feared he would, the other man stepped forward to pick it up for him.

"You, um, dropped this."

Matthew held the box out to him with a sheepish expression as Arthur looked at him, whole body burning, mortified.

"Thanks," he heard come from his own mouth as his arm reached to take it.

Holding the packet, arm down by his side, posture stiff to the point his muscled strained, Arthur remained quiet, as did Matthew, as both waited for something to be said.

"It's, uh, not quite…I mean, it's not, um," the muted sounds of the party prevented his train of thought from running smoothly as Arthur stumbled through several false starts.

"Arthur," the other caught his eye in a way he was unable to look away from and admitted, a little guiltily, "Francis told me."

Unsure whether this made things more or less awkward, the older man went back to standing in uncomfortable silence as he mentally kicked himself for being so inept around his own damn family.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean that we're spying on you or anything, it's not like he tells me absolutely everything, he just…"

"He's told you everything then," the older man stopped his sibling's stammering, not having meant to cause him such distress.

Offering a pained, apologetic smile, Matthew was grateful that an unconcerned one was returned, showing his brother wasn't offended in any way.

"I'm sorry, though. I don't want you to feel like we're ganging up on you or anything, he just likes to talk things over with me, I guess," he apologised again, tugging at the sleeves of his blazer.

Arthur shook his head and tucked the box away, his expression gentle. For whatever reason, he had never been able to harbour the slightest hint of anger towards the younger of his twin brothers. Had Alfred walked in just then he'd surely have told him to mind his own business and proceeded to hide the truth but not with Matthew. He had a quality to him, an innocence that made lying to him feel wrong.

"It's alright, just don't worry about me, I'm fine," he attempted to end the exchange with a nod, however, Matthew returned no signal that he was happy to leave things there.

Gaze flitting away from his brother, he adjusted his glasses, seeming to prepare something in his mind, then looked him in the eye once more.

"Look, it may not be for me to say, but I'm your brother and I do worry about you," he spoke earnestly, voice soft as ever, and Arthur shuffled in place, horribly uneasy, "and I'm really glad that you're trying something. You know, trying to help yourself. There's no reason to be self-conscious about it."

Perhaps his tie was just too tight but, there was a knot in his throat as Arthur responded.

"It wasn't really my choice but thank you," he made light of the sentiment.

This time the younger man smiled. "I know it's hard for you," he empathised. He had always had a great affinity for empathy.

Thinking their conversation was over, Arthur moved away from the sink he had been standing by but was halted again by his brother.

"Hey, uh, do you mind if I give you something?" he asked, an eyebrow raised with some apprehension.

"Of course not, what is it?" Arthur questioned in return.

"Just a second." Matthew pulled out his phone, typing something then looked over expectantly.

A vibration alerted Arthur that his sibling had sent him something and unlocked his screen to a message with a phone number and a name he didn't recognise. In need of explanation, he frowned confusedly at the other.

"It's a number for a therapist's office," he informed, "I know one of the councillors that works there, he's a friend of mine, from school. He was in his last year when I started, and he helped me out with papers and stuff, I don't think I would have done half as well if he weren't there. He's very good at what he does. If you ask for him he'd be happy to see you."

Despite the glowing review, Arthur opened his mouth to protest.

"You don't have to call but I want you to think about it," Matthew urged, tone benevolent, "I study therapy because I think it works and I just want to do what I can."

His kindness was touching, and Arthur lamented his inability to accept and appreciate such emotionality, the best he was able to offer being a curt bob of his head and a stilted assurance of, "Alright."

Pleased with the compliance he received, even if it may not have been fully truthful, Matthew allowed his brother to leave without further insistence.

Back out amongst the thick of things, Arthur was scouted by his partner before he could make it back to the table, his hopes of enduring the night in relative peace dashed as the other took his hand, leading him away from the rest of the group.

"Come, mon cher, you are not going to get away with being antisocial all night," he tsked as he led his unwilling prop out into the open hall.

The rest of the evening crawled by in various bouts of obligatory small talk with people Arthur sort of knew from acquaintanceships made long ago. About as invested in these strangers lives as he was in his own at that point, he leant on his significant other for most of the conversation, chiming in at points so as not to seem rude but spent a majority of the time just nodding. Surely anyone who wasn't stupid could see that he didn't give a shit, but Arthur found that when talking about themselves people generally didn't care whether their audience payed attention, too happy to believe they were the centre of attention for a short while. However, Francis, ever the networking butterfly, seemed contented to flit between groups, subtly mentioning his studio when the opportunity arose and raving about the event as though they weren't currently at it.

At the outskirts of one such group, while the other picked up his go to ice breaker, Arthur stood alienated, their words brushing past him like a whistling breeze, their very presence impalpable. Even Francis, who remained close enough to touch, just didn't seem real. It was as though they were flat, the whole room was flat, and Arthur was the only one with a shape.

Averting his eyes, he looked elsewhere for anything more interesting, latching onto the back of a nut-brown head. He had half expected to see Erika but wasn't sure, she was still just an intern after all, and felt somewhat compelled to go and say something. Picturing how that would go, however, he decided against it as he could think of nothing other than tedious pleasantries and perhaps something work related to say, neither of which interested him.

The young woman he now realised he had been staring at turned to glance in his direction and, although his first instinct was to look away and feign ignorance, he stayed watching her as she smiled and waved. He feared she may break away from her group to come over to him but, to his relief, she remained hanging off her brother's arm, melting into him almost with how tightly she clung. Raising a hand in return, the infantile woman went back to her own conversation as Arthur went back to his.

An endless few hours later, he was released from his personal hell when the group reunited and the night around them showed the first signs of closing down. Although the more personable members of the small family probably would have liked to have stayed out longer, the others showed clear signs of social fatigue and so they bid goodbye to the friends they could find and took a cab home.

Dropping Alfred and Matthew off at their apartment first then making a second trip to the Kirkland-Bonnefoy residence, the couple came into the hallway, Arthur practically falling through the front door, his whole demeanour sunken. The thought that he had two days off to look forward to could have brought tears to his eyes, God knows he had earned it, and he had no intention of waking before midday.

"I am sorry if I seemed annoyed earlier," Francis apologised for something that had totally slipped Arthur's mind, "I do not mean to seem like I am forcing you down the aisle, I was simply taken in by the mood."

Barely able to remember the discussion, the other thought nothing of sending a tired smile his way.

"I know," he muttered, "Sorry for being an asshole about it."

"It is understandable," Francis chuckled as he crossed out several days on the calendar.

As he leaned against the door frame of the living room Arthur looked over, watching the older man, and felt that lingering tweak eating at him yet again.

"Really though," his remorse filled tone caused the other to glance over, "I hate disappointing you."

The softest of azure eyes sent their devotion without words and Arthur could barely stand to look at them, shifting his attentions to the living room.

"We should really redecorate," he changed the subject but could hear footsteps approaching him.

"I have been meaning to pick out some paint samples," the other spoke in a semi whisper, leaning his forearm on the doorframe above the smaller man's head, "How about blue?"

Arthur could feel the heat from his body, smell his personal scent. "I don't know," he rejected the idea, wanting to perpetuate the conversation in an attempt to prevent what was about to happen, "It might be too cold."

A low rumbling came from behind as the feeling of bodily heat intensified, a hand on his waist coaxing him to turn so that their faces were close enough for their noses to touch.

"You look very handsome tonight," Francis murmured against his lips, kissing him as though to prove his point.

He felt one hand grip his ass and the other on his back as he was kissed, deeply. His own arms remained by his sides, still with the hope that, perhaps, a kiss was all his lover wanted but, as the hold on his backside migrated to his front, it became clear this was not the case.

Lips moving in time with the ones pressed against them, Arthur heard the other's breath grow heavier, his own body reacting as it should to his experienced touch but found his desire had left him. Telling himself time and again to put an end to it, he was unable to.

His eyes still open as their mouths were entangled he saw the strain, the need on Francis' face. It wasn't fair for him to deny the man he loved the satisfaction. Lord only knew why he still found him attractive, as far as Arthur was concerned he was disgusting, but for whatever reason he did.

Guided gently to the sofa where he leant against the arm of it, he raised his hands to hold the lapels of the other's blazer, an action which seemed to excite him greatly. The melding of their mouths was tender, no bites nor teeth, simply a sweet, yearning kiss as Francis unzipped the fly that prevented him from getting to what he wanted.

Breath hitching at the way he was touched, the pleasure did nothing to make Arthur want it yet his hands moved to reciprocate. He was thankful that Francis didn't break their lips apart to catch his dead eyes.

His blazer was knocked from his shoulders, tie slipped off and top buttons undone. The last things acting as barriers were dropped and Arthur shuffled back on the arm of the sofa, unashamed but detached as his legs were spread by caring hands.

He had no right to feel used and he didn't. He felt very little, in fact, while his partner moved slowly, lovingly with lips pressed against him the whole time. Returning the affection as best he could, Arthur did his part, partly so that it could end sooner and partly because Francis deserved that at the very least. He wanted to want it, to feel the heat of lust, the elation of someone's undivided attentions showered upon him so freely but all he could do in that moment was think to himself 'why?'. Why did anyone like him?

Movements growing faster, Arthur wrapped both arms around the other's shoulders for stability as his legs were held below the knees, a light scratching at the larger man's back proving too much for him as his actions came to an abrupt halt with a choked moan.

Pulling away briefly to smile with chaste passion as his panting abated, Francis came in close again, his heart beating rapidly against Arthur's own as he peppered the pale body under him with kisses, moving progressively lower.

Quickly placing a hand beneath his chin, Arthur brought him upright to press their lips together a final time then moved away, not able to fake enjoyment and wishing to escape the unwarranted adoration. He slipped on his boxer shorts and collected his trousers from the ground, avoiding the look of confusion he was being sent.

"Is everything alright?" Francis asked, noting that his lover seemed to eagerly attempt his getaway.

Casting a glance behind him, Arthur almost winced at the expression he saw, one of guileless worry, like a dog that was scolded for something it didn't understand.

"Yeah, fine," he tried to sound breezy, which he evidently did not as Francis furrowed his brow.

"Are you sure?" he sensed his other half's unease at something, pulling up his trousers to walk over, reaching to touch his arm.

Swerving away from the contact, Arthur shook his head. "I'm fine, there's nothing wrong," he convinced limply.

Retracting his hand, guilt instantly came to the Frenchman's eyes, slight panic also.

"Amour, did I hurt you?" he asked, coming closer still, prompting the man he only wanted to help to retreat further.

"No, of course not," he rejected the concern, turning and climbing a few steps up the stairs until Francis caught him by the wrist, gently like he was afraid of injuring the fragile limb.

Unsuspecting of the contact, Arthur flinched a little out of surprise, causing the man that held him to release his grasp immediately, backing away.

"Arthur, what is it?" he beseeched, fear underlying his words, "You are acting like I…like I have assaulted you."

Face turning near white as he became overwrought by the thought, Arthur cut in.

"No, you bloody idiot. Dear Lord, why would you think that?"

"Because I am not a goddamned mind reader!" Francis looked about to vomit, his overactive mind assuming the worst, "Que diable est la question?"

Despite trying to do something right, Arthur found he had, yet again, only hurt the man he wanted to please. Lowering himself down onto the step he stood on, he ran his hands through his hair, head hanging in dismay.

"I don't know, Francis," he groaned, "You know I don't know. I never do."

Observing closely how the other reacted, Francis sensed the nature of what the issue may be. He calmed himself and came to crouch in front of him on the step below where he sat.

"You are not obligated to have sex with me, you know," he proved himself more perceptive than Arthur had given him credit for.

Raising his head to find those painfully understanding eyes inches from his own, the despairing man was determined to make himself the villain.

"It's not fair on you," he commiserated.

"I do not want to have sex with someone who does not want to have sex with me," Francis' sombre tone showed his words were absolute but took on a lighter inflection as he questioned rhetorically, "What, you think I have somewhere else to get it if you say no?"

Arthur paused, not from doubt but for not knowing what else to say.

A heavy sigh deflated the taller man as he took this silence the wrong way. "Arthur, I do not want to fight you on issues that do not exist."

"I've never thought that of you," Arthur spoke up, "Call me conceited but I'm pretty sure you love me for more than just the sex."

Enclosing both of the smaller man's hands in his own, Francis looked up with pleading eyes. "Then what?" he waited for his answer.

Another quiet spell as Arthur composed his thoughts, chewing his lip and tasting the same iron tang as earlier.

"You don't deserve this. People have the right to expect certain things from a relationship and I haven't been…considerate of that. It's not fair," he appeared physically hurt by speaking about the taboo subject so seriously, something that Francis admittedly found quite precious.

The older man raised a hand to hold his face, wiping away the tiny bead of blood that sat on his lip to peck them fondly.

"This is not some contract you must uphold," a sadness tinged his gaze as he looked between his partner's distraught, forest eyes, "I cannot believe I even have to tell you that."

Unconvinced, Arthur moved his face from the hand that held it but found it trailed his movements, refusing to be parted.

"Fair has nothing to do with it. I want what you want," Francis implored of him, suppressing a sigh of frustration when Arthur stared blankly and nodded but said nothing. "One of these days I will get through to you," his resolve buckled, "Might I just say sorry and leave it at that?"

"Please, Francis, there's nothing for you to be sorry for, I don't want you to apologise to m-" Arthur refused to accept. He was sick of people being sorry for his indiscretions, of becoming a victim of his own making that others were hurt by whilst trying to save.

"Might I just say sorry," Francis repeated before he could finish, "and leave it at that?"

"It's okay," Arthur breathed, body going lax as it was embraced, held with one sided intimacy for a moment then released, the other brushing past him as he sat on the staircase.

Growing up, Arthur had never had many couples to look up to. His mother raised him alone, his father having vanished, and his grandparents died when he was an infant and so he didn't have much of an idea when it came to relationships in that sense, however, there was one piece of advice he had been given long ago that he had always tried to follow.

Never go to bed angry. He couldn't remember where he had heard this, but it resonated with him and never once had he fallen asleep in anger. Mostly because the sadness, the guilt and the regret set in as soon as he laid down his head, and with those to occupy his mind he couldn't sleep at all.

* * *

Translations

Très agréable – Very nice

Si jolie – How lovely

Espera un minute – Wait a minute

Mon doux garcon – My sweet boy

Que diable est la question – What the hell is the matter

Notes

Guess who spent three days editing this because they can't plan things in advance. That would be me. Thank you for reading, review, favourite and follow if you want to stay updated.


	8. Chapter 8

IMPORTANT message at the bottom that you may want to read before carrying on with this chapter.

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He woke shivering that morning, the house cold and sad. Hugging the covers against his chest, Arthur delayed the process of getting up, closing his eyes but finding that sleep wouldn't return. With an unintentional grunt, he stretched both arms out as far as they would reach, until it felt like his muscles could snap, and rolled over to face the empty space beside him.

The pillow still held the indentation of a head and the sheet over mattress was wrinkled in a way that showed the person that was last there had spent a while sat in place before getting up. Whatever residual heat said person may have left behind had long since faded but Arthur reached out to feel for it nonetheless, craving warmth. Curling his fingers so that they dragged along the material with some added resistance as he drew his hand back to himself, he laid on his back then sat up slowly, as though rising from the grave.

Noting the window remained closed, Arthur wondered why the temperature of the house had plummeted so dramatically, thinking perhaps the ever more miserable weather had infiltrated their home. Clouds one shade lighter than thorough black blocked out the sun like a thick, woollen blanket, their oppressive weight stifling without warming. The spindly, naked branches of the neighbour's tree were in frame of the windows view, eerily still, not a hint of a breeze, and blurred by a saturated mesh of mist.

Atmospheric heaviness further delaying his already slowed movements, he struggled from the bed and ventured into the hall. Not only was it colder outside of the contained space of the bedroom but the sound of nearby traffic was audible and, on making his way further along the landing, a recognisable smell drifted up the stairs.

He came down to find the back door open, Francis sat there stretched out along the length of the threshold. Stopping by the base of the stairs, Arthur leaned against the banister as he watched his partner raise an elegant hand to take a drag of the cigarette balanced loosely between its slim fingers. While he wanted to interrupt, the expression of melancholic reflection on the other's face was one that required solitude and Arthur felt he owed him that at least.

However, he couldn't look away. Taking a moment to admire the way smoke rolled from his barely parted lips, the depth to his oceanic eyes and the sadness that lay there he ached at the thought of losing him. He wondered why he stayed when his loyalty was repaid with consistent cruelty. It would have been kinder to cut him loose years ago, when things had started to get bad, and Arthur knew he was selfish for not doing so but he had expected things to have come together by this point, they both had. Another disappointment courtesy of himself.

Leaning his cheek against the top of the stair railing, the old wood let out a complaintive creak and the form in the doorway glanced over at the sound. Both men looked at one another, no discernible emotion on either tired face, until Francis spoke first.

"I took them from your jacket," he informed, gesturing his cigarette wielding hand, "I did not think you would mind."

"You worked so hard to quit," Arthur quietly disparaged.

Lips drawn back into a tight line, Francis turned his face towards the hand that held the glowing stick outside the door to inhale again and continued to look out over the garden as tainted breath swirled from his nostrils.

The already obvious fact that Arthur continually hurt those around him was clearly demonstrated by the scene before him as Francis relapsed in his two-year victory over the vice and happily went on poisoning himself. Despairing in the knowledge that he had driven him to this, Arthur felt compelled to rectify his actions, although doubted his efforts would amount to much.

"What's the matter?" he failed to think before he spoke and cursed the stupidity of his words.

"Nothing, amour," the other muttered with such little conviction a deaf man could have called bullshit.

Unfamiliar with the position he found himself in, Arthur paused, casting his gaze to the floorboards as he bit at the skin of his index finger. To see his behaviours as others did, portrayed by someone else, he realised just how impenetrable the situation seemed to an outsider. While Francis appeared to want to be left alone, something told him this was the wrong thing to do and so, hesitantly, he shuffled closer, shaking as he sat against the opposite side of the doorframe, facing his partner.

Blue eyes remained fixed on the overgrown grass, embers tumbling from the end of his cigarette, as Francis slouched against the frame. Rubbing his arms while he shuddered, the elements welcoming themselves in through the opened door, Arthur straightened one leg out, hugging the other to his body. Francis remained unwilling to converse leaving the inepter of the two to open up a dialogue, yet nothing lent itself to mind.

Gaze skipping from the trisful face of his lover to the world beyond their doorstep, the smaller man was rendered mute. Fog stagnated in the air, particles of it settling on his exposed arms with a tingle, so dense that anything beyond the diameters of the garden was erased. The branches of the tree one garden to the left reached over, invading their space and Arthur wondered what kind of tree it may be. He hadn't paid attention to the shape of the leaves it bared when they had first moved in and would have to wait until spring to find out. Wordless, the pair stared into the murky oblivion.

"You're allowed to be angry with me," Arthur offered contritely, "You don't have to treat me like I'm fragile."

"I am not angry at you, you have done nothing wrong," Francis denied, a languid hand flicking a collection of dull ashes to the ground with decidedly little effort.

"Neither have you," the other insisted, his eyes unable to find a point of focus as his partner wouldn't to face him.

"I still see no reason to be angry at you," the older man pointed out, his tone flat.

It was rare and unsettling to find Francis in such a chillingly cynical mood and, to Arthur, an unpleasant insight into what he had forced his other half to endure as of late. The pensive silence this bred prompted him to carry on despite not knowing what to say.

"You're annoyed," Arthur clumsily tried to get into the headspace of his significant other, "It's okay to be annoyed with me, I know I'm making this more difficult than it needs to be."

Although the other had presumably been sat there for some time he saw no new cigarette butts by the back step. Francis had always been a slow smoker, breathing each puff of the rancid fumes as though it were his last. Neither man could remember when they had taken up the deadly habit, some drunken night out most likely, but the Frenchman had always claimed he continued it out of stress. The way he savoured every drag to its fullest seemed to be an act of self-comfort, unlike Arthur who simply possessed an addictive personality and could go through a pack in a day if he wasn't careful.

As if demonstrating this, Francis raised the cigarette to his lips once again to fill his lungs and exhale his thoughts along with a tendril of smoke that mingled with the dankness in the air.

"What colour do you want to paint the living room?" he derailed the discussion, much to his other half's dismay.

"Come on, Francis, we can't both be emotionally unavailable," he wryly joked, strain on his face, "That's just not fair."

His jesting fell flat, and Francis' features remained stoic as he rubbed at his bloodshot eyes.

"I am annoyed at the situation, not you. It is frustrating to not be able to do anything," his lips barely moved as he explained tiredly, his whole face drooping.

"I'm sorry," Arthur apologised despite having been told he wasn't to blame, "It's not okay that you have to put up with this."

Pulling his eyes from the obscured landscape, Francis turned to his partner, a shadow of a frown on his brow.

"Why do you insist on being punished?" he tried to understand.

Wavering under the piteously exhausted gaze, Arthur cast his eyes to the floorboards, opening his mouth and closing it again as he thought how he might articulate his answer.

"Because I've been dreadful to you," he stated, remorse written on his face, "and I shouldn't make any excuses about that."

Still watching his lover with a subtle pain to the quirk of his lips, Francis leant into his cigarette again before he went to reply. However, his organs seemed to take offence to their maltreatment as he began coughing, the toxins spewing from his mouth as he hacked his throat dry.

With a sympathetic tut, the smaller man reached over to take the vice from his hand, placing it between his own lips to take a breath.

Having gotten up whatever had set him off, Francis sat back against the wall, folding his arms. "When was the last time you said you would quit?"

The question wasn't mocking but still reminded Arthur of his trail of failed attempts.

"Beginning of autumn," he let out in a sigh, holding the cigarette up to find he was already nearing the end.

"If you stop I will not drink for a month," Francis negotiated. He had wanted Arthur to quit smoking ever since he had and, at first, it had been a joint endeavour, but the younger of the two had proven the weaker willed as he had caved to cravings two months in.

Shaking his head, Arthur rebuked his persuasion. "You don't have to bargain with me, I know I should stop."

Raising a brow in response, the look Francis sent him was one of asking without words, unwilling to request something that he knew was unlikely to be delivered on. But it was enough for Arthur to stub out what was left of his cigarette and flick away the end into the overgrown grass with one last polluted exhale.

They watched the small projectile strike a path through the fog and heard it land, the late morning starkly quiet around them. A nearby, rasping bird call preceded the beating of feathers and a crow swooped above them, an inverted shadow projected upwards, both lazily rolling their eyes skyward to watch it glide over on still wings.

It passed quickly beyond view and left the couple staring at the great, impermeable expanse outside. For a while they remained this way as Arthur tried to think of some resolution to their conversation but couldn't quite work out what to say or even if it were necessary to say anything at all. It didn't feel right to leave it at that but there seemed to be nothing he could add.

He picked at the loose skin hanging from his lip as he hoped something would come to him, but it appeared the man he aimed to please expected no more from their exchange as he stood and left Arthur by the door. Running water and the flip of the kettle switch signified he was ready to start his day and the man huddled against the wall supposed he should do the same rather than sit on the floor and willingly freeze. Another minutes empty minded observation as the world past his walls hid away behind the damp veil and Arthur pushed himself up to head upstairs.

Beginning his day in his own way, he went to the bedroom and unscrewed the jacket he had unceremoniously flung onto the chair the previous night. A deep crease along the back of the tailored fabric had him regret his carelessness, mouth straightening into an expression of displeasure at the clothing as though it were the fault of the inanimate object rather than his own. Whilst mentally grumbling to himself about how much dry cleaning would be, he rummaged through the wrinkled pockets to begin his comfortable routine with a dose of chemical cheer.

He took the box into the bathroom with him and turned on the tap so as to ease the chore along with a mouthful of water. Pressing on the back of the plastic so that the foil on the other side popped open, two of the tabs burst rather than the intended one, the pills spilling into his palm. Whether this was an accident or a subconscious decision he wasn't sure but not one objection crossed his mind as he swallowed both down.

A shower later and he joined his other half in the kitchen with a rough smile which was returned thinly as they sat at the table together, Arthur clasping the mug of tea that had been made for him. Warming to one another after their frigid start to the day, nothing else was said in reference to the night before or whatever unpleasantness it may have kicked up as they casually discussed colour schemes for the downstairs and whether they should get new cabinets.

While the weekend was a much-needed pause to the continual grind, to Arthur that was all it was. A pause. A small respite that left him in some suspended ether where nothing he did seemed to matter. He read, he ate, he tried to relax but he couldn't rid himself of the lingering apathy that haunted him like a curse through everything he did.

Unlike others who might seize the fleeting freedom to spend their time doing something they thought meaningful, the nihilistic man's view was quite the opposite, finding no motivation in the briefness of it all. Instead he waited, numbed and bored, for the week to start anew, as though this cycle would one day bring purpose. His various activities were occasionally interrupted by the urge to stand and wander aimlessly about the rooms of the house, entering one, waiting, then returning to his original spot, whatever restlessness bothered him refusing to be satiated.

Although their home was by no means large, ideally suited for two people in fact, Arthur still found it too empty. Much of their clutter had been thrown out when they moved as it had been quite a substantial downsize but this wasn't what he missed. It was the activity, the quiet chaos of a full house that he pined for.

Alfred and Matthew may not have lived with them for over a year now but when they had first packed their lives off to university halls they had still returned most weekends to the comfort of their own rooms and an environment they were familiar with. Now without the nostalgia factor to lure them back he only ever seemed to see his brothers when there was food on offer. He understood, they had their own lives of course, but he felt the house to be without life when half of his family was gone.

The two days slipped by in a slow blur and the tedium of a new week came as a surprise to no one. Christmas being just around the corner, the couple found themselves seeing one another even less than usual as Francis was kept busy with seasonal bookings. Colour coordinated families and happy couples posing before snowy backgrounds in their ugly sweaters for the yearly card had him staying out late most nights.

In all honesty, Arthur didn't mind the time to himself, too detached to appreciate company and often finding himself collapsing into bed the second he was home, neglecting his need for food and amusement. Most evenings he would hear the stifled twisting of keys in the lock and feel the covers shift as another body crawled in just as drained as he was, but it roused no response from him. As much as he enjoyed the companionship of another person beside him as he slept, he consciously blocked out anything that tried to take him from the one place he found peace.

Dragging his scuffed shoes up the stairs to the confinement of the bedroom, Arthur shed his outer skin, letting the suit crumple in a heap around him, and lowered himself onto the mattress. The way the plush surface dipped to accommodate his weight was enticing, the urge to sink down and be engulfed by it hard to resist, but he harnessed his stubborn will and reached into his brief case instead.

He had felt himself drifting, running through the week on autopilot, and, in an attempt prevent himself from regressing any further, had stopped by the local book shop on his way home. Pulling out his chosen novel, he relished in the scent of new paper, fanning through the pages so that the smell wafted upwards. Admittedly, he didn't find himself quite in the mood and would rather have curled up in the sanctuary of his duvet as he had every other night that week but felt it necessary to inject some sort of mental stimulation into his day, lest he lose the last dregs of his brain's capacity. It was something he had been meaning to look at for a while, though, and not particularly long.

Shuffling up the bed to lean back against the headboard with his legs drawn up under him, he opened up to the first page. He looked at it a moment, a hint of trepidation in the back of his thoughts as he pleaded with some imaginary powers that be to let him have just one thing that may make him happy for a while, but he didn't dare hope too much.

However, no sooner had he run the first sentence through his mind than the front door opened with a clack and a bright greeting of, "Bonsoir, mon ange."

A sinking exhale left his nose of its own accord. He had assumed he would have a few hours to himself but apparently this wasn't so.

"I didn't expect you home so early," he remarked as his partner came through the door, keeping his tone light despite being slightly put out at being robbed of his solitude.

"I sent off the final print of the calendars this morning, no more late nights for a while," Francis announced with a proud smile.

"That's good," was Arthur's impassive attempt at congratulations, his lack of engagement going unnoticed.

"Oui, I am relieved. I feel as though I have not seen you in months," he exaggerated and leaned in to kiss his lover's lips.

Angling his head to the side so as to return the gesture while keeping his eyes locked on his reading material, the younger man only hummed in reply.

Yet in spite of his muted reactions, the oblivious Frenchman continued to chatter, Arthur allowing him to go on, half listening as he read the first few paragraphs.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Francis interrupted himself, rummaging through his pocket to pull out a small, plastic bottle which he tossed in Arthur's direction, "Regarde, I got you a present."

Extending a hand to catch whatever had been thrown at him before it hit the ground, Francis' aim wasn't exactly amazing, Arthur broke his dedicated gaze to study the label.

"To help you quit," the other clarified as Arthur sceptically rolled the bottle of nicotine gum between his fingers, "Not that I think you need it, you are doing well so far."

"Thanks," he did his best to appreciate the gesture when really all it did was remind him how desperately he wanted to smoke.

The older man's mouth curved up as a sign of encouragement, his eyes bright, an expression that Arthur managed to half replicate in return.

He placed his gift to the side and set his attention back onto the first page that he had yet to finish. Francis rustled around in the background, the plastic clanking of coat hangers and shifting paper disturbing the silence, and it seemed Arthur would be left in peace as he became engrossed in the printed words. Seeping into the written expressions, he found himself being accepted into their world as the thrill of enjoyment gently guided him deeper into the story.

"She killed herself, non?"

Lowering his paperback wall at the query, Arthur furrowed a brow at the other who gestured at the book.

"Virginia Woolf, she committed suicide, did she not? Or am I mistaking her for someone else?" he enquired after the author of the novel.

"Oh, yes, she did," Arthur confirmed.

A sombreness settled upon him at the realisation. In a way it felt different than reading a work by someone who was simply dead. There was a sense that the character's suffering was also the writer's, that everything one of those fictional lives went through was deepened by the knowledge of their creator's actions.

"A shame," Francis' sentiment drew him from his contemplation.

"She was a troubled woman," the sobered man mused as he reflected on the life of the writer, finding himself put off of his purchase.

"But from great pain comes great art," Francis, as usual, was able to find a silver lining.

"For the lucky ones," Arthur muttered, the thought slipping past his lips without consent.

Head cocked curiously, the other caught the hushed comment. "What do you mean?"

Reading the last sentence of the page again, Arthur let the cover fold over and set the book aside.

"I don't know," he said, not in the mood to explain himself, nor do anything for that matter.

"Do not stop on my account," Francis seemed to realise he was a distraction and went to make his exit, but it was too late.

Having lost his appetite for literature, Arthur left the novel on his bedside table and stood to follow his partner.

"I couldn't get into it," he excused, turning the book so that the name along the spine was out of view before trail after the other into the hall.

Somehow, within the blink of an eye, it was the weekend again and, unable to endure another as he had the last, Arthur intended to spend a few hours at the office, despite not strictly needing to. Anything to kill the hours. The hours leading up to what though, he couldn't say. It was like he was waiting for something that never came. He tried not to think about this, however, as it really did prove the pointlessness of it all.

Kicking off his day on that bleak note, he didn't have to wait long to run into his first inconvenience. One, thankfully, more mundane than the greater complexities of life but irritating anyhow as he found he had gone through his prescription faster than expected since he had continued to take it at twice his original rate. While it was rather annoying to have his routine thrown off so early in the day, in a way it was also a good thing. One more activity to fill his time with, something to stave off those unwanted thoughts.

From this, he set out a cohesive list of humdrum chores to occupy himself with, neglecting to think any further into the future than that night as though that very day was all that mattered. Go to the office, take his jacket to the drycleaners, get his prescription refilled. Simple but time consuming, just what he needed. A manageable day.

The first part of his plan went off without a hitch, arriving at his cupboard around midday and staying until the first inklings of sunset sullied the horizon. A few successful hours of inconsequentially busying himself and he was back out on the windswept streets for his next quest.

Cheeks pink and burning with the bitter chill by the time he reached the dry cleaners, Arthur hurried inside and waited patiently behind the few other customers ahead of him. Blowing into his cupped hands, he flexed his fingers painfully and was reminded how close to the end of another year it was when he spied the neon glow of Christmas lights flickering on along the lampposts on the high street. A little premature, in his opinion, or at least that's what he thought before realising it had been December for a few days already. The holiday seemed to creep up with more stealth every year, bringing with it less of the seasonal spirit each time.

The queue in front of him had disappeared and Arthur was called back to earth with a polite, "May I help you, sir?" to which he stiffly twitched his lips and brought the item of clothing to the desk. He was handed a numbered ticket in return that he tucked away into his wallet for safe keeping and forged onward to his final task.

It was as he stood in line at his registered pharmacy that his, so far very efficient, plan ran into a significant problem.

"Alright, that should be ready for you to pick up on Monday," the woman behind the counter told him with a pleasant smile creasing her plump cheeks.

"Monday?" he repeated.

A well-meaning look of apology came to the woman's face as she leant over the register, speaking to him with unintentional condescension in a way that people do after having to spell something out many times over. "It takes a while to run it through the system and sign off on the dispatch and we're closing for the weekend in half an hour," she relayed the information, "You can pick it up first thing on Monday morning, dear."

She flashed her rosy lipped smile once more as Arthur nodded and stepped away from the desk with his empty box.

He wandered back through the cramped shop, down the shampoo isle, and out the door, his mission failed. Paused outside, useless box in hand, he tapped against it to hear the hollow sound and chewed his leathered lip.

As much as those little nuisances continued to do nothing for him, he also didn't know whether he should stop taking them. He liked the excuse too much. As long as he took them he could tell himself he was trying to improve without doing anything else. It meant he didn't have to go to therapy or start taking care of himself physically or open up to his friends and family because, as Matthew had congratulated him on, he was trying.

If there was one person Arthur had always been good at lying to, it was himself but even that was becoming difficult. He didn't know why he made everything such a battle for himself. He was well aware of what he should be doing but he wasn't doing it. It was like there were three of him, one at the top of a hill with their hand outstretched to the version of him that struggled hopelessly upwards only for the third him to slap their hands apart whenever they were within reach. Persisting to hold himself back was half a knowing decision and half issues too repressed to see. The whole thing was a mess. He was a mess.

Lifting his gaze, he let out a breath, blowing the tail end of it upward to shift his fringe that had grown long enough to dust his eyelashes, and began meandering his way home. From somewhere down a side road he caught the stench of smoke and cursed the temptation. He hadn't thought about smoking at all that day but suddenly it was all he had in his head. Refusing to be so easily swayed, he took out the container of gum to try one. The hard, outer coating cracked with an explosion of cool mint that sent frostbite down his throat when he breathed, but soon after the initial flavour wore away he was left with a strange aftertaste. He wasn't sure what it was supposed to do but it didn't make him want to smoke any less, that much was certain.

Squishing the rubbery lump between his molars until he was outside his house, he spat it into one of the outside bins before going through the front door. There had been no gum allowed under his mother's roof and he had upheld this rule for his brothers, so he wasn't going to be a hypocrite. That lingering flavour stayed with him though, until he brushed it away later that night.

He found ways to keep himself busy; vacuuming the carpets within an inch of their life, clearing the drains, suppressing the fear that he would never find complete fulfilment and happiness. The usual. By Sunday night, he could feel the beginnings of a migraine lurking under his forehead and a hollowness in his ribcage, the alleviation of sleep refusing to grant him respite. Eyelids held open with invisible matchsticks, he stared at the ceiling, scraping off the last rags of skin that clung to his bruised lips.

Counting down the minutes until his alarm went off, he rolled his head to the side to glare pure hatred at the sound, switching it off before it woke his partner, an aching stiffness weighing in his head as he sat up. He showered at length, the steaming water releasing some of the pressure behind his eyes and took a few painkillers after he stepped out. Barely having to swallow, he didn't think about how something he used to find so difficult was now practically second nature to him as the tablets slipped down with no trouble at all.

He left the house dishevelled and dazed from exhaustion. Forgetful in his trance like state, he was forced to walk back on himself in order to retrieve his prescription. A short detour but one that took more energy than he had to spare, finding himself winded from his regular walking pace. Stopping around the corner from the shop entrance to regain his breath so as not to be stood wheezing all over the counter, he hucked up a few wracking coughs that left him dizzied. The forceful expulsion caused a sharp compression in his head, to the point he feared his eyes may burst out and he blinked hard several times to secure them in place before he moved on. His lung capacity wasn't brilliant after years of abuse, but it really would be a cruel joke if the effects of his smoking decided to hit only after he had quit.

The reward for his trials wasn't exactly worth it but he wasted no time in peeling off the clear plastic sticker that kept the tabs closed so that he could get to the contents of his package and gulp down his preferred dose as soon as he was on the bus. Disregarding any looks of judgement as the pills landed in his empty stomach alongside the others from earlier, he looked directly ahead of himself, the obscured slate of the cityscape outside jarring to watch. He sat as still as he could manage, the constant swerving of the vehicle jostling his already fragile insides about in a sickening manner.

Jumping from the bus a few stops early, unable to stand the turbulence another minute, the hyperborean whip of December struck him hard and he stumbled over the curb. There was no one around to witness this though, and he righted himself with minimal embarrassment to move on unsteadily. The malicious looking clouds above tried their hardest to rain out of spite, the occasional drop smacking the asphalt with a vengeance as their darkness filtered down to saturate everything they shadowed.

His surroundings becoming busier yet less vibrant, Arthur rounded the corner to the entrance of the office block, succumbing to the flow of grey clad bodies, and split off from the throng with several others to enter the sliding doors. Stuffy, artificial heat intensifying the higher the floor, clamminess made his collar stick to the back of his neck and he, again, found himself rasping for air as he took a seat at his desk, chest burning. He removed every layer he could, even loosening his tie, and leant forward into his hands.

Head pounding in time with his heart, a hot shiver ran up his spine, his jaw tightened, and searing blackness overtook his vision. Pushing the heels of his palms into his temples, a shrill ringing pierced both his ears and he gritted his teeth as he was convinced his brain was frying.

Time stopped in that moment for what felt like an eon but was more like a few seconds as the clock on his computer screen hadn't changed when his eyesight slowly returned, leaving an outline like spilled ink around the edges. For whatever reason, he didn't consider going home, running on his factory settings, ignoring his physical suffering as though he existed on some higher plane of consciousness. Perhaps he was so disassociated by that point that he actually did.

His hands worked as his skull hammered. The cocktail of drugs in his system began to react, a churning sensation low in his stomach, and nausea gripped his oesophagus with unrelenting fists, squeezing ever harder. He tried to swallow but the suffocating heat of the sixth floor had drawn the moisture from his mouth, his tongue like a sponge against the inside of his cheeks.

The walls were moving, bending around him, he was sure of it, and it sounded as though every person in the office were screaming yet, at the same time, he could barely hear over the blood that pumped past his ears. Above his head, a single neon lightbulb buzzed incessantly like an insect repeatedly flying onto a window, flickering at grating intervals. A static crackling came from the monitor and his head reeled from looking at it, but the room fizzled out of existence when he tried to look elsewhere.

Hands quivering as they moved to type, the tips of his fingers tingled, turning to ice then going completely numb. The involuntary tensing of his jaw foretold the hot sickness that rose in his throat, catching him off guard as it stung the back of his tongue, but he managed to cram it down. The second time, however, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop the inevitable, and so, as his windpipe convulsed again, he lurched from his seat, lips clamped firmly shut, and made a controlled dash to the nearest bathroom.

He flung open the door of the empty room and turned into the last of the three stools to hunch over the toilet and empty his insides in one violent retch. Dropping to his knees, he continued to dry heave until tears streamed down his cheeks and his knuckles were white from clinging to the seat. The tempest in his gut eventually settled, he reached back to lock the stall door and eased himself into a half sitting crouch, the ominously sticky floor unforgiving on his bony legs. Hoarse gasps left him as he choked up the aftermath and spat into the bowl then flushed the evidence down the pipes.

He felt marginally better, his organs weren't wound into one giant knot anymore at least, but he feared that if he returned to his desk he may not be so lucky should there be a next time. Therefore, he remained on the floor between the wall and the porcelain fixture, the taste of his own acrid innards lining his mouth.

As expected, the worst had yet to pass and he stayed in his protective tiled refuge vomiting on and off a fair while longer. To his relief, he was left in peace as he hurled up the meagre contents of his stomach and hoped the sound of his strangled heaving was drowned out by telephone calls and photocopiers.

Wiping his face on his sleeve with a trembling arm, Arthur diffidently leant away from the bowl, the sickness finally having released him as there was surely nothing left for him to expel. Back pressed against the wall, the cooling surface sent a ripple of gooseflesh over his skin as he slouched down, head falling gently back. The dull pulsating behind his eyeballs had culminated into an exquisite, shooting pain that cleaved his skull in two and he rolled his neck to the side so that one temple enjoyed the tiles soothing touch also. Closing his eyes against the stark white reflection of the room, a sigh of relative solace left his lips.

A lethargic arm rose to sweep his fringe from his face and found it stuck to his tacky skin so that he had to pick each individual hair loose, then dropped back to the ground with a thud. He would have stayed there for an hour longer had he not been intruded upon by the cheery whistling of a colleague whose footsteps echoes to a stop in the stall beside his own. Although he doubted anyone was timing him, it would raise suspicion if he stayed in there much longer especially when someone else had come and gone, and so, on quaking legs, he pushed himself up against the wall and let himself out.

Stumbling a few steps over to the sinks, he leant heavily on the counter, watching his reflection teetering precariously, cracked lips parted and eyes glazed over. He washed his hands, Lord only knew what had been on that floor, relishing in the flow of the water and cupped one, still damp, over the back of his neck, half expecting the liquid to sizzle away on contact. A droplet trickled down his already sodden shoulder blade as the other stall door opened and he watched the slight form of a man he hadn't been expecting emerge to smile with chirpy surprise.

"Oh, Arthur! Ciao, how are you?" the amicable Italian greeted, his warm eyes beaming as bright as his mouth.

Somewhat taken aback by the sudden burst of enthusiasm, Arthur faltered, blinking slowly as he processed what was going on.

"Yes, I'm alright, and you?" he strained to centre his attention on the smaller man's face, instead latching onto his auburn curls.

"Si, molto bene, grazie. I came in to visit Ludwig for lunch," Feliciano told him, seemingly very excited about every word. Watching him could almost make a person tired. "I'm glad I found you, thank you so much for your gift, it was very thoughtful of you," he continued to gush, "It's a shame we didn't get a chance to talk the other night, I hope you enjoyed yourself."

Arthur had trouble keeping up with his rapid-fire conversation over the thumping in his head but nodded along anyway, stuttering when the other paused for his response. "Yes, it's not a problem," he managed, still trying to squint his companion into focus.

The blurry expression changed and the voice that spoke to him held an inquisitive tinge.

"Are you okay, Arthur?"

He was so tired of that question. People only asked out of concern and he knew he should be grateful they cared but honestly if he looked so awful that they felt the need to ask then perhaps they should think for themselves and come to the obvious conclusion that no, he wasn't okay, and they should leave him alone.

"Yes, fine," his own voice was faint and whatever Feliciano said afterwards was inaudible, but he nodded once more, steadying himself with a hand on the sink as he felt his knees go weak.

A rush through his body told him he couldn't sustain their pleasantries any longer and what's more he didn't want to. Feliciano was a sweet man by all accounts, but it took quite a deal of patience to actually talk to him.

"I'm sorry but I really must be going," he abruptly pardoned himself, swerving around the other to make his escape, hearing a muffled goodbye called after him.

Walking in a forcefully straight line from the bathroom to his office he paused in the doorway to look dejectedly at the stacks of work on his desk, the three-digit number next to the email icon, the shelves that dipped with the weight of unopened files and could barely stand breath. Without another thought, he collected his belongings and left. Down the stairs and out the building, the frigid wind cutting off the last of his connection to his body as his legs carried him away.

Not far from his office was a park, one of those inner-city parks where a person can never quite lose themselves to the freedom of nature on account of the iron fence that contains it, and that was where he headed. Through the town, up the gentle slope, past the last of the tower blocks and out into the open. He was still miles from anything that may have been considered the countryside but away from the main roads, where there were no cars to blast their fumes directly into his face, walking was less of a chore. Barely out of breath when he came to a stop atop the grassy hill at the centre of the park he stopped, gazing out over his hometown.

It reminded him of one of those spaghetti westerns that that Alfred had been so fond of as a child, the final scene when the protagonist looked out over the town he had rid of evildoers, the sunset a blistering orange behind them. He would give a satisfied nod, a steely gaze and turn his horse around to disappear over a ridge, knowing he had done his job and the world was better for it. Arthur had always found it immensely tedious, the same plot was recycled twenty times over and the characters were so paper thin they were practically see through, but he could understand why Alfred had liked them so much.

Everything was so black and white, there were the heroes and the villains; the latter irredeemable and therefore the former justified in their murderous intent. Although he didn't agree with such a blunt depiction of morality it was admittedly comforting to think things were that simple and he couldn't deny that such a conclusive ending was satisfying once in a while.

But, as he stood watching over the place he had spent his near quarter of a century of life, he would have been a fool to think of the world like that. People weren't handed out their parts at birth, there was no inherent good or bad in a human, only their way of seeing things. Everyone was just as confused as everyone else and that was probably for the best.

From his vantage point, the horizon looked no clearer and a gale lashed around him, his coat and hair flapping all over the place. The odd spot of rain caught him like a cold hand tapping him on the shoulder but despite the foreboding darkness it seemed an empty threat as the sky held onto its load. He didn't want to be proven wrong, however, and left when the occasional drop became more frequent.

Back the same way he had come as he didn't know the other side of that hill, had never been there, and wasn't in the mood for an adventure. It seemed to take longer to find his way out of the park than it had on his way in, perhaps he took a wrong turn somewhere along the way, but he really had no idea, ambling in a mildly pained stupor.

The soft padding of his shoes on the grass turned into the crunch of gravel then the staccato clap of pavement as he integrated back into the roads, heaving with people on their lunch breaks. For a long while he wandered, pace slow and unsteady, down the high streets, a passing spectre in the reflection of the shop windows. Somewhere a ways off, the clocktower chimed but he didn't bother to count the number of strikes, he could tell the general time from how frantically the people around him hurried along.

By the time he had reached the far end of the promenade, the clouds decided to call his bluff, unleashing their burden. With the sudden release, the walkway was quickly cleared of bodies, the people of the unpredictable island nation well accustomed to such unexpected turns in the weather, however, Arthur failed to react. He continued on his way, unperturbed by the icy scourge, his back to the worst of it, wilfully ignoring the umbrella at the bottom of his bag. Most of the city having returned to their desks, the coffee shop he neared was empty and as much as the rain didn't bother him he supposed he wouldn't mind being out of it and so ducked inside.

Arthur didn't drink coffee, but the smell always made him think otherwise, the richness of it bred warmth even in a foreign place. Dripping all over the homely, wooden interior, he made his way over to the counter and narrowed his gaze up at the menu board on the wall. Judging by the outlandish item names the shop must have been some new, alternative place. All he wanted was some tea.

"Hey there, what can I get for you?"

The premature question threw him, and his widened gaze darted from the wall to the overzealous smile of the man behind the counter. Blinking stupidly, his lips parted, the sentence he formulated was promptly cut off when a horribly uneasy sense of familiarity lodged itself in the back of his mind. That tooth baring grin and the way it creased at the corners of those eyes the colour of cobalt, he knew it from somewhere.

"Do you need some time to think about it?" the man offered, each accented word intensifying that eerie recognition.

"A latte, please," Arthur's mouth released the first words he thought of while his brain near collapsed in on itself trying to unravel the feeling of Deja vu.

"Coming right up," the other nodded, turning to the machines against the wall.

Narrowing his eyes at the back of the blond head, the slightest niggling memory came to him. He knew the man from school, that much he was certain of, but he couldn't have placed a name if his life depended on it. It was rare these days that he would run into someone from his formative years, most of them having moved on to more interesting things, and he was glad the recognition wasn't mutual.

"Hey, you okay, pal?" the barista addressed him with a subtly tilted head, his spiked fringe defying gravity even at an angle.

"Sorry," Arthur realised he was gawking but didn't look away, "I thought I knew you from somewhere, but I must be mistaken."

The other chuckled, sliding his order over the countertop. "I guess I have one of those faces," he brushed off, "That's £2.40 please."

Pulling out the spare change from his pocket, he paid, exchanging a forged smile with his unknowing acquaintance.

Out on the street he glanced back through the shop window and was surprised to find he was being watched, much in the same way he had scrutinised the familiar man that now returned the sentiment, but on catching gazes the barista quickly looked away, going back to his work.

Nose creasing as he took a sip, he frowned, berating himself for not thinking before he spoke. What a waste of money. The scalding temperature helped to mask the taste, however, and the heat that radiated from it eased his shaking hands.

The elements had begun to permeate his coat and he could feel the damp cold creeping through his layers. There was nowhere for him to go and he knew he should have gone straight home from the office, but he really didn't want to. Francis was working from home that day and he didn't want to be a distraction. That's what he told himself anyway.

Instead he veered to the west of the town, off the main roads again, as a deep seated urge overtook him. In that moment, for whatever subconscious reasoning, he needed to visit the graveyard. He never usually went to there when it wasn't at least half decent weather, as a graveyard in the rain was one of the most depressing things he could think of, but this time the awful conditions didn't deter him.

Braving the misery with his collar flipped up, he pounded the pavements, quick to become winded, sputtering along the way but didn't allow his pace to falter. The rickety peek of the bell tower reached weakly to the sky, like the arm of a dying old man, and it looked so frail that Arthur half expected it to be blown over. Hesitation pulled him back at the sight, the old church a sad, dripping ash colour, no birdsong to accompany him this time, just the wailing of rusted gates. Not quite spooky but certainly not welcoming. Not the sort of place he wanted to associate with his mother.

But, by the time he had changed his mind he was already stood by the front gates. He didn't want to go in, he couldn't think of anything he dreaded more at that point, but he did, pushing through the tarnished metal. It creaked shut with a clang behind him, sealing him within the gothic scene.

He followed the path all the way up to the double doors at the front of the small chapel, stopping in the archway where he was sheltered from the rain as he tentatively checked to see if they were locked. With a heavy clunk, they swung inward and he retracted his hand as though they may bite as they moved. Although he doubted anyone would be there at that time on a weekday, he proceeded with caution, poking his head around the corner to survey the hall before slipping through.

Closing the door behind himself, he stared down at the wood grain rather than turning to see the place he had not been to since the day of his mother's funeral, the musk of dry stone floor and wood varnish bringing a sheen to his eyes. He leaned into the door, resting his forehead against the hard surface as he closed his eyes, composing himself, then faced the familiar place.

Nostalgia momentarily paralysed him, locking him in place as though he were still a child who needed a parent to lead him by the hand to his seat. Not a single thing had changed in the past six years, as though it had not been entered since he had last visited. Tentatively making his way down the centre aisle, he reached out to lay a hand on one of the pews, needing reassurance that he wasn't in some scarily vivid dream. It was ever so slightly sticky from the years' worth of lacquer smeared over it by the caretaker, so many layers that it never completely dried down. He ran his fingertips along each row as he walked, the echo of his steps muffled by the sheet of dust that covered everything, until he reached the alter.

Comparatively unspectacular for a catholic church, it forewent any sort of unnecessary decoration apart from the enormous, carved crucifix that hung from the rafters behind the chancel. Stood in its shadow, Arthur winced up at the bloodied face of Jesus. As sure as he was that crucifixion was not a tidy way to go he did find it to be rather gratuitous. He knew it was meant to symbolise the suffering that Christ went through for the sake of others but still, all the guts and gore seemed a little hypercritical for a religion that preached peace. He couldn't count the hours he had spent sat on those ass numbing benches transfixed by that cross, imagining the wires that held it in place snapping and the giant statue keeling over to crush everyone in the first three rows.

Diverting his gaze before he moved, afraid that those pained, painted eyes might follow him if he didn't, he strolled along the side aisle and ducked into one of the back rows to take a seat. He didn't feel at home there but at the same time didn't want to leave. It was the same feeling he got when he passed his old house or the school he used to go to, a sort of punch in the throat that occurred when he realised he didn't belong there anymore.

Along the walls, the glass faces of the old saints glared down at him. He remembered when he used to find them intimidating, with their holier than thou expressions, when he had listened to the sermons and heard the old stories of their miracles and whatnot. As he grew older, though, he had realised they were just that; stories.

That was probably the only part of church he had enjoyed. When old Father Thomas had opened up to verse whatever and told the parable of whoever. He didn't care about the heavy-handed message that came along with it, the stories had been fun to listen to and he could follow the way that Father Thomas had told them. He was a nice man. Definitely dead now though.

While the bare walls and stale atmosphere of the little hall didn't fill him with the warmth of the holy spirit it was certainly better than being outside and Arthur came to realise he was utterly soaked through. The coffee cup he carried, still full, had lost its one value as the liquid inside was stone cold and he set it down next to him to rub his hands together. Bringing back enough heat for them to register on his phone screen, he checked the time. Still a few hours before Francis would be wondering where he was. Why he was so reluctant to see his partner, however, he couldn't say.

Taking shelter in the sacred place, Arthur scrolled through various social media platforms, mildly interested but too disjointed to follow what he saw. One thing he did notice, though, was the seemingly coincidental adverts that kept cropping up for self-improvement or therapy apps and the like. There was a surprising amount, and he frowned when time and time again another one was shown to him, but then remembered what his search history must look like after the past few weeks. Disturbed by how accurate those user algorithms could be, he was reminded of the empty promise he had made to his brother and turned off the screen to be plunged into darkness as though he may hide from the self-reproach he sensed skulking towards him in the shadows.

He hadn't thought about that therapist's number, not even once, since Matthew had sent it to him. Not that he had thought he would but there was something about that hall, the judgemental glare of characters long dead and the guilt trip of that hanging body, that made the smallest indiscretion seem like an unforgivable sin.

Slouching down against the rigid wooden seat, his knees colliding with the bench in front, he deflated with a sigh. He tried to think about it as he said he would, to rationalise, but his mulish stubbornness wouldn't allow it. Any thought of 'perhaps if I just tried it' was firmly and instantaneously quashed by 'nothing would come of it so why bother trying'. It was an unhealthy cycle of thought, one that speaking to a professional could really help to break. Ironic in every sense of the word.

By the silence that had fallen, Arthur could tell the rain must have stopped as the roof was so thin that the lightest trickle sounded like God himself was knocking, so he rose and didn't look back as he went. He did glance in the direction of the graveyard on his way down the path, though, but didn't linger, carrying on through the gate and onto the road. He didn't want his mother to see him in the sorry state he was.

The streets empty and dark, a break in the clouds revealed a full moon. Arthur let himself be distracted by it as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Unable to recall what direction he had come from, he chose one at random to leave by and followed it to the end of the road.

Glaring street lamps gave the night an orange hue and barley lit anything at all, the bulbs so worn down they gave off no more light than a match. Equally spaced circles of illumination dotted the cement walkway until Arthur turned a corner to find a strip of darkness. He was puzzled for a moment, an ominous sight to come across, but simply thought that one of the bulbs must have gone out.

Venturing into the murk, he found the ground beneath his feet to have a strange feeling to it, a reverberation whenever he put his weight down, and looked up to find himself part way across a bridge. He had totally forgotten it was there, constructed so that pedestrians could cross the train tracks below without hassle. Bridges had always provoked mixed feelings in the him. He didn't care for the sensation of suspension, it put him on edge as he couldn't help but feel he may fall at any moment, but he enjoyed peering over the precipice to gape down from the dizzying heights.

Moving to the edge, he leant against the railing to do just that, looking directly down at the tracks far below. Not high enough that the fall would definitely kill him but there would be no getting up from it. Even if he did survive the trains came along very frequently, so that would most likely finish the job.

Closing his eyes to force the invasive thoughts back into the dark cracks of his mind, Arthur put up a mental block against such ideas. It was hard not to think about though. Especially when he could remember hearing of at least two poor bastards that had thrown themselves from the very spot where he stood.

He folded his arms along the top of the rail and buried his face in them, sort of scratching his forehead on the rough material of his coat, then perched his chin atop them, flipping his hair from his eyes. He glanced to the light at the other end of the bridge, brighter and more white at that end, then to where he had just come from before aiming his gaze down again. Wind tousling his overgrown mane, it was like he was falling. Leaning further out over the rails, the slightest thrill grazed his chest, as though urging him.

In answer to the call of adrenaline, he placed one foot on the rung below the railing and stepped up, that little bit of added height exponentially increasing the sense of danger. His hips pressed against the top of the boundary, if he leaned over it he could easily have lost his balance and been the next days page two news.

Again, he cast his eyes down. The exhilaration had faded and now all he was left with was the possibility.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. He could but he wouldn't.

A sigh drained him, and he stepped down to carry on over the bridge, emerging from the abyss. His phone rung out again as he turned in the direction of his home, although he doubted that was where he was headed.

* * *

To everyone who cares, I cannot tell you how bad I feel for breaking my uploading schedule. I'm honestly really mad at myself for that but there is a reason. Firstly, I started a new job so that kind of got in the way, but, more importantly, this chapter and the chapter I will be posting very soon (like within a week) were meant to be one chapter. I split them up because my chapters had been getting really long and if I didn't this chapter would have been more than 20,000 words and no one wants that. But, like i said, that part is mostly finished so please just bare with, it is very much appreciated. Sorry this one isn't super interesting (I know it's probably not worth the wait) but thank you for reading and being loyal.

As always, reviews are welcome.

Also, check out Virginia Woolf. She's not one of my favourite authors but she was a very tragic and interesting person, there are plenty of documentaries about her on YouTube.

The guy in the coffee shop was meant to be Denmark by the way.


	9. Chapter 9

Warning - This chapter contains drug usage, bodily harm and mild gore.

Translations below.

* * *

Locking up the side entrance of the building on his way out, since he was the last one to leave, Gilbert shoved his hands into his pockets and burrowed his face down into his coat as he strode to where he had parked his car. He complained quietly to himself for not having gotten to work earlier that morning as his regular parking space had been taken and he was forced to go half way down the road.

As he made his way briskly down the vacant sidewalk, the buzzing of his phone near frightened the life out of him. Jumping, startled, he pulled it from his pocket to see yet another message from Francis. The poor guy had been texting him all afternoon, becoming progressively more frantic over the whereabouts of his missing boyfriend. Again, he responded saying he was sure Arthur was fine, that he had probably just gone to pub with his friends from work and had forgotten to say, but Francis seemed convinced of something awful. Shaking his head, he typed out something else generically comforting and tucked his phone away.

Rounding the corner, he caught a cold peck to the cheekbone as the rain picked up for the thousandth time that day. Puddles still pooled around the overflowing gutters as there was no sunlight to evaporate them, yet a dankness emanated from the pavement as much as it fell from the sky. It was times like this that he thought of moving back home to Germany, if only for the white Christmas'. Through the bleakness, however, his eyes were drawn to a flash of light, a smouldering cigarette that briefly illuminated a distinctive crop of blond locks. He questioned the sight momentarily but was sure of what his senses told him.

"Arthur?" he squinted at the man he addressed as his pace slowed to a halt.

The yellow head sprung up, wide eyes blinking at him like two green moons. He said nothing, just continued to look at the man that stood confused by his random appearance.

Frowning one platinum eyebrow, the older man glanced around himself, as though he suspected he was being set up, then stepped in closer to his friend. "What are you doing out here?" he questioned, "Where you waiting for me or something?"

There was an odd glint to the smaller man's gaze, as though there was nothing behind it. "No, I just stopped here," his reply was stranger still.

Further furrowing his brow, Gilbert began to see why Francis had been so worried, rather concerned with his friend's behaviour himself.

"You okay, pal?" he enquired gently.

"I'm fine," the other murmured, raising the cigarette to his lips again to bite the skin of the fingers that held it, glassy eyes diverting to the ground.

"You sure?" Gilbert pushed cautiously, a little unnerved, "You know, Francis has been calling you all night. He doesn't know where you are, he's worried sick about you."

"Oh," Arthur breathed, glazed over eyes meeting the other's, "I'm not…far away."

At a loss of what to say to the man that had seemingly lost his mind, Gilbert closed his gaping mouth and nodded. "I see that, buddy," he humoured, placing a hand lightly on the smaller man's shoulder to coax him along, "Come on, it's starting to rain again, I'll give you a ride home."

Without argument, Arthur bobbed his head and tossed his cigarette to the floor beside at least ten others, allowing himself to be guided. They didn't have to go far to reach the vehicle, Gilbert opening the passenger side door for Arthur to climb in before heading round to the driver's side, sending Francis a quick text to say his partner had been located then got in.

Neither spoke as they drove, the older man too confused to know what to say, the younger in a daze as he watched the windscreen wipers swish left to right. Glancing from the road to his passenger, Gilbert noticed he was shivering,lips appearing a crimson red against his pallid face, and he cranked up the heating.

Pulling up outside Arthur's place, Gilbert caught the living room curtains falling like someone had pulled them back then the front door opened before they had even come down the driveway. He walked his friend to the door, watching Francis' tensed frame relax a little when within reach of his partner. Arthur only half acknowledged him though, sort of gliding past to disappear inside.

Both men watched him turn into the other room, Francis exhaling as he looked to his friend, folding his arms.

"Gilbert, thank you. Thank you so much, I cannot tell you how relieved I am," he spoke as though the words exhausted him.

"Sure, no problem," Gilbert continued to frown as he had the whole journey over, gaze flicking from Francis to where Arthur had vanished off to as he awkwardly fumbled, "Hey, is he okay? He seems sort of…not all there. Like, is he on something?"

Again, Francis sighed. "He has been dealing with some things," he offered vaguely by way of explanation.

Simply nodding along with the bizarre turn his night had taken, the older of the pair wasn't one to pry and added a quick, "Well, take care," then returned to his vehicle.

"Thank you," Francis called after him, shutting the door and leaning against it a moment before he followed his partner's steps.

Pacing in the doorway he glanced over at the man sat doubled over on the sofa. He may have overreacted but even though Arthur was home safe and unscathed the anxiety still bubbled inside him.

"What the hell were you doing?" he demanded, concern coming over as frustration, "I called you one thousand times, do you have any idea what the time is?"

Detached, the smaller man focused on the carpet. "I felt like being out," he mumbled.

Eyebrows shooting up incredulously, Francis interrogated him semi rhetorically, "Did you not think to tell me? I had no clue where you were!"

"I didn't want you to know." Arthur was aware of his selfishness, he hadn't thought about how much trouble his actions would cause but at the time he had just wanted to be alone. Completely alone.

"It is not like I would not let you go out, you can do as you like, putain d'enfer Arthur, there was no need to give me a heart attack over it!" the older man's voice came out harsher than intended from the suddenness of such fervour. Taking a breath to calm himself, he placed a finger to his temple, not wanting his emotions to get the better of him. "No, I am sorry. I do not mean to shout, I am not angry at you," he took back his outburst, realising that the stress of the past few hours was making him erratic.

"I'm sorry," the other automatically recited but the words had lost their touch.

Shaking his head, Francis rejected his apology. "Non, Arthur, do not tell me that. To be sorry means you will not do it again, but you keep repeating the same behaviour. It is self-destructive, do you not see that?"

The way those viridescent eyes dropped showed Arthur already knew what he was being told and Francis' demeanour softened. Another tremendous breath left him as he paced a few steps, stopping to run a hand through his hair and face his body towards his partner.

"When will you get it through your head that I am not against you. I want to help because I want to see you happy, not because you are some sort of burden when you are sad. You must stop hiding how you feel from me, ask for help when you need it," he implored, despair straining his words.

"Okay," Arthur quietly relented, gaze fixed on his hands in his lap.

"No, not just okay, cherie, speak to me, give me more than that," Francis groaned.

"Okay, I…I give up," Arthur crumbled under the weight of his lover's desperation and his own exhaustion, meeting the other's eyes with melancholic lucidity as he surrendered. "Please, help me, if you can. Fix me. I'm so tired."

Head falling into his hands, body hunched over as he sat, the picture of defeat, Francis' chest near split in two at the sight.

"Oh amour," he tenderly bemoaned, coming to sit beside him, "You find new ways to break my heart every day."

Reaching an arm around him, Francis pressed a kiss to the side of his damp head, closing his eyes to breath in the smaller man's scent. For a second, it seemed Arthur wished to resist the compassion, remaining still, but then proved quite the opposite, leaning into his partner's hold to seek warmth in the crook of his neck.

"You are wet and you smell like a chimney," Francis broke the silence after a while.

Without a word in his own defence, Arthur rummaged through one of his pockets and pulled out a half empty pack of twenty, holding it up. Taking it from him, as it was not the time for a scolding, Francis simply set it aside and looked down at the pale face.

"Come, you must take off those clothes before you catch pneumonia," he clucked, standing and offering a hand.

Taking the help to pull himself up although he didn't really need it, he let the thick material of his coat slide from his body under its own weight, tossing it into the vague direction of a hook out in the hall then heading upstairs. On his way he caught a glimpse of the time and felt guilt graze his chest.

Legs quivering after the unjust lengths they had been pushed to that day, Arthur clung to the banister to propel himself forward, feeling lightheaded as he reached the top. His throat dry, the deep breath he took in an attempt to clear his fuzzy vision caused a round of coughing, violent enough to crack his ribs.

Sniffing back the stuffy gunk thrown up by his respiratory system, he straightened himself out and saw a set of scrutinizing blond eyebrows held up at him.

"You are not thinking of going to work tomorrow, are you?" Francis not so subtly hinted.

"I'll decide in the morning," he left the choice to the Arthur of tomorrow, however, as he crawled between the sheets to forget his troubles for the night, he was fairly certain of what conclusion he would come to.

Waking the next morning, Arthur experienced what he thought being dragged through a marsh must feel like, head the weight of lead on his shoulders, sinuses so blocked he could hardly breath, vision blurred and stinging. Above the sound of his lover's peaceful breathing he could hear his own whistling through his constricted airways. Taste buds obscured by his inability to smell, all they managed to pick up the mucusy flavour that comes with a cold lining his mouth.

His alarm had yet to go off, but he had already written the day off. Although he would usually have still gone to work whilst feeling like death incarnate, the previous day had sapped the remainder of his dwindling motivation and he could justify taking a day or two to allow it to rebuild a little. Perhaps he should have been more worried about his current work record, however, even the dread of unemployment had lost its effect by that point.

Lying flat on his back, a tickling sensation scaled the walls of his throat, his lungs begging him to let it out, but he rolled over, swallowing it down as he didn't want to wake his partner with the sounds of his coughing. He watched the unconscious face of the man he tried not to disturb, half covered by his wavy locks. Arthur didn't know how he could sleep like that, the way the flimsy strands jumped about with his soft breaths made him want to pull them out at the root.

Closing his eyes to try and get back to sleep, the niggling itch in his oesophagus proved its persistence, starting to burn. He tried to force it back, but the Saharan condition of his mouth meant he swallowed nothing but air, making the situation worse, and he wasn't able to hold it in any longer. Quickly flipping over so that he didn't spew disease directly into his partner's face, a scathing cough tore the vulnerable flesh of his windpipe as it tried to rid him of the burdensome internal discomfort.

Exhaling a silent groan into his pillow, he sniffed and pulled the covers closer to himself, cold on the inside as well as out. As he, again, let his eyes slip shut and tried to ignore the rattling in his chest he felt the sheets around him shift and an arm find its way around his waist, pulling him closer to the heat of the body behind him.

"Shh, si bruyant," the rumbling murmur brushed his ear as he was enveloped fully, melding into the curvature of the larger form.

Unwinding into the embrace, the touch of another bringing much needed warmth, the smaller man relaxed, senselessness numbing him.

The relief was short lived, though, as the constant need to try and expel his organs from his body kept him from falling fully asleep. Trapped in a midway state where the real world was out of reach but so was blissful release, all Arthur could do was let the waves of woolly haziness lap at his mind and try to ignore the thumping in his head.

As unrestful as his morning was, he must have fallen between the cracks of consciousness at some point as he woke to an empty bed. Although the temptation to drift back to sleep was insurmountable, he knew that if he gave in to it once that would be how he ended up spending his day and so pried his eyelids apart. Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, a hiss passed his clenched teeth as shooting pain snapped his overworked tendons and he paused to let them stretch a little before unfurling out his whole body.

He shuffled to where he could hear movement below, finding his partner there, bleary eyed and wearing the clothes he had gone to bed in still, pottering about the kitchen.

"Bonjour, mon ange," he lilted, glancing over his shoulder to react with mild surprise at the other's appearance, "You look like shit."

"I feel like shit," Arthur agreed, voice a hoarse rasp.

The corners of the older man's lips curled sympathetically upward, blue eyes softening. "Pauvre lapin," he consoled with a pitying pout that heated the smaller man's cheeks with self-consciousness, "That is what you get for wandering about in the rain in the winter."

"I'm fine," Arthur croaked in the same manner, attempting to clear his throat so he might prove his point but only succeeded in agitating it, a coughing fit erupting from him.

Francis' soft chuckle was drowned out by the racket as he came closer to lay a hand on his lover's back, giving it a gentle pat. Pressing a kiss to his forehead he pulled back with a frown.

"Sacré blue, you are burning," he fretted, placing a palm just above his eyebrows.

Ducking away from his touch, Arthur scowled. "Stop it, I said I'm fine," he claimed once more.

Lips pressed into a tight, resigned line, Francis retracted his hand and turned to one of the cabinets in search of mugs. Taking down the only two out of their collection that they used, and looked back to question, "Tea?"

"Sure," the other smiled his thanks and slid into one of the chairs around the dining table where Francis soon joined him, both flicking through their phones in comfortable silence.

Several tagged pictures of Alfred, seemingly at a friend's party, popped up, the comments under them sending their 'bon voyage' messages and wishing him well on his upcoming journey. Reminding Arthur that he hadn't texted either of his brothers in several days, he made a mental note to call them later but knew he would, half willingly, forget to do so as he could predict what the conversation would be about. Aside from that, it was only office related messages, the sheer number prompting him to switch the device off. What he couldn't see couldn't hurt him, or his career, he told himself.

Through the patches of condensation on the window, the sky wasn't as dark as the day before, but the English native knew the deceptive nature of his countries weather and bet on rain later in the day. He continued to watch the drab scenery nonetheless, reaching out to take a sip from his steaming mug only to dribble the liquid back out as soon as he took a mouthful, grimacing as his brow creased in utter offence.

"Are you trying to poison me?" he looked at the man who had known how he liked his tea for eight years with betrayal in his eyes.

"Do not be so dramatic, I made it with three sugars, not thirty," Francis tsked, "Sweet things make you happy, I thought it might help."

"You're right, I'm thrilled," the other drawled.

"It is a fact," Francis insisted, "I read it on a blog, sugar does something to your brain that makes it happy."

While his explanation wasn't as scientifically sound as he may have believed it, Arthur couldn't be annoyed at something done with good intentions and dropped his sour expression.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't ruin a perfectly good cup of tea to prove your hypothesis, though," he griped in order to stop such an incident from happening again.

"Apologies," Francis breathed, glancing up from his phone with slight disappointment in the contrite tilt of his lips, "I thought I was helping."

Inwardly flinching, Arthur looked away and turned his attention back to his phone, as did his other half. With nothing to interest him behind the fragmented screen in his hands he instead observed the rising steam dancing from inside his mug. With no breeze to sway it, the vapour climbed straight up, twirling and fluctuating as it went, the way it moved reminding him of a ballerina. His mother had taken him to the ballet once, a very, very long time ago, and he could never forget the how those dancers were able to contort their bodies in such an unnatural yet fluid way. They made it look so effortless, like gravity didn't apply to them, just as it seemed not to for the ghostly dampness that trickled inexplicably upwards.

"What would you like for dinner tonight?" the man across the table queried, his words tearing through the foggy stream.

"It's not even midday, I haven't really thought about it," he replied half mindedly.

"Well, I am going to run some errands later and I need to know what to get," Francis returned.

As usual, Arthur didn't care, the joy of eating having worn off long ago.

"It's up to you," he uttered but found his regular answer was apparently unsatisfactory.

"Non, I want to know what you want to eat," the older man stood his ground, making eye contact from across the table with an intensity that said he would receive his answer one way or another, "Tell me what you want."

"I don't know, I can't think of anything in particular," Arthur's heavy brow gathered in the middle, gaze wavering under the scrutiny, "Why do I have to decide?"

"Because if I make something that you want to eat you may actually eat it," Francis countered with a level stare, "You are skin and bones, I know when you have not been eating, Arthur."

Eyes dropping, Arthur bit at his inner lip. "I always eat what you make," he argued weakly, "I don't mind what we have, get what you want to eat."

Receiving no immediate reply, Arthur glanced up to be met with a stern expression as Francis watched him, arms folded and thoroughly unimpressed.

"Have you already forgotten what you said to me last night?" he accused, face straight. Waiting for his partner to open his mouth before continuing to lecture, he leaned over the wooden surface. "You agreed to let me help, did you not? And I will not let you go back on that again. Clearly the gentle approach is not working therefore I am prepared to be forceful if I must be, so tell me," he inched forward in his chair, laying his hands down on the table, tone flat, "What do you want to eat?"

Struck by the impact of the simple question, Arthur's mouth remained hanging open, but no words came out. Heart thudding harder against his ribs as a hint of anxiety stirred in the pit of his stomach, he forced his jaw closed and swallowed.

"Shepard's pie?" he ventured the first food that came to mind.

"Is that what you want?" the other reiterated, "Or are you just saying it?"

Falling mute once more, Arthur was unable to withstand the demanding, cyan stand off any longer, letting his head drop as his gaze latched onto his hands.

Unseen by him, the elder of the two showed a similar reaction, realising he had been too harsh in his tough love tactic.

A regretful smile graced his lips as he relented. "D'accord, that was a little too forceful," he retracted, worried he had pressured his lover too far, "that is what I will make."

Flicking his fringe from his eyes as he lifted his head, Arthur mirrored the same repentant simper. Appreciative of the unceasing dedication his partner showed, he was well aware of how difficult he was being, hating himself for that as he longed to show some improvement, more for the sake of the man he loved than himself.

Attention drifting from the other, however, he looked to the mug, still radiating visible heat, before him. Wrapping a clammy hand around the warm china, he brought the sweetened drink to his lips and took a sickly gulp, sending a reassuring smile across the wooden divider as he let the liquid drizzle down.

The gesture was subtle but didn't go unnoticed, Francis' features softening as he understood what the less verbally abled of them meant by it. Standing and leaning over the table, he tenderly pressed his lips against the tea sweetened ones of his partner, lingering as long as he was allowed to.

"Mm, stop, you'll get sick," Arthur protested, leaning away after a moments enjoyment.

"I thought you said you were fine," Francis teased softly.

Rolling his eyes at the other's cheeky grin, Arthur turned his face as Francis attempted to sneak another kiss, gently pushing him away with a smile curling his lips. A hushed laugh blew from the older man's nose as he straightened his back and pulled the hairband from the messy bun that held his unbrushed locks.

"Would you like me to stop at the pharmacy while I am out?" he volunteered.

The memories of the day before playing in his head, Arthur felt the muscles in his jaw tense, a lump lodging in his throat at the suggestion.

"That's alright," he declined, "I…don't think I'll be taking anything at all for a while."

Understanding what he was alluding to, Francis nodded, accepting his choice without question.

After much assurance he would be just fine by himself for a few hours, as though he were a child that hadn't been home alone before, Francis headed out and left Arthur to his own devices.

As drained as he was, he resisted the lure of his warm, spacious bed, instead going upstairs only to retrieve his newly started book. Huddling up in the corner of the sofa, he angled his body to the perfect degree, book held in both hands, legs semi stretched along the cushions.

Making it through several chapters before his eyelids began to grow heavy, he continually forced them back open, stubbornly turning the pages one after another. The fading daylight didn't help his concentration, darkness blurring the words, and the natural melody of rain against the pavement outside was irritatingly soothing.

He fought until the end but by the time Francis made it home, Arthur was dead to the world, nestled into a tight ball at one end of the sofa, book still gripped loosely in his hand. Biting his lip as he smiled down at the tranquil face, Francis slid the paperback from his limp fingers, placing it to the side, and settled beside the sleeping man, fondling his feathery hair.

Another day of precious life spent ignoring the real world, Arthur couldn't feel too guilty over it as, with the heavens opening outside and the compassion of human warmth within reach, it felt the right thing to do. Keeping his eyes open long enough to eat, under the careful examination of his newly appointed life coach, he quickly resumed his activities, blank, dark dreams welcoming him back.

Having already decided he wouldn't be going to work the next day before it even arrived, Arthur didn't wake properly until late morning, drifting downstairs to find himself falling into the same situation of bored unwillingness to do anything. The lack of inspiration was frustrating but not in a way that he could channel into actions, more mind numbing. He huffed as he lamented his position. Not miserable, per say, but unfeeling in a way that gnawed at his insides, the dysfunction preying on him, fuelled by worst insecurities. Thoughts that tried to unsettle him screamed to be realised but his head was so thickly clouded that he couldn't have heard them if he wanted to.

With even his ability to think robbed from him, Arthur reconciled himself to the lowest form of entertainment; daytime television. Whatever came on, however, was of little consequence as he only used it as an excuse. Arguing to the part of him that knew better that there was nothing else to do, he knew full well it was only background noise to sleep to and was proven right when his eyelids descended not ten minutes later, the last dregs of the previous night's sleep dragging him back without resistance.

A repeated banging at the door startled him from his narcoleptic state and Arthur jerked upright, narrowing his eyes in confusion at the clock across the hall. It was only mid-afternoon, too early for Francis to be home yet so he assumed it to be some salesman or one of those religious zealots pedalling their chosen faith with leaflets, they were always around this time of year. Readying his polite but firm decline as he made his way to the door, he opened it to a sight he was not expecting.

On the front step stood a hopeful looking German, a plastic bag of mossy, green balls that he really should not have been presenting in broad daylight in one hand and a six pack in the other.

"Okay, look, you can call me a loser and tell me to piss off if you want, I'd understand completely, but you seemed pretty down the other day and, well, this always used to cheer you up so what do you say?" Gilbert arched a brow in persuasion and waited for his reply.

The man in the doorway glanced from the drugs to his friend's expectant smile.

"Get in," he ordered, standing aside.

Grin splitting his mouth, Gilbert bounded into the hall, offering an approving pat on the back as he passed the smaller man.

"I knew you wouldn't resist," he snickered as Arthur poked his head out the door to survey the street.

"No one saw you, right?" he worried over getting caught, as though he were still sixteen and trying it for the first time.

Eyes rolling in their sockets, the terrible influence of a man cracked open one of the cans and held it out. "Would you stop being so paranoid," he downplayed, "Do I look like the suspicious sort to you?"

Quirking an incredulous brow at the most conspicuous person he knew, Arthur closed the door and accepted the outheld gift.

"This is a nice neighbourhood, I don't want to get a reputation," he groused, taking a sip.

"Jeez, relax. We're not going go crazy, it's just a bit of fun," the other rationalised as he peeled apart the seal of the bag and held it up for Arthur to smell, "Here, is that good shit or what."

He leaned in to inhale and recoiled, nose wrinkling as the familiar scent was far more pungent than expected. "Bloody hell," he exclaimed, "Where did you get that from?"

"I still have Ned's number," Gilbert replied.

"He still deals?" Arthur furrowed a lightly dubious brow.

An unconcerned shrug was thrown back at him as the older man snapped himself off a beer.

"He said he just smokes every now and again, but he didn't mind selling me some of his," he said.

"Because that doesn't sound like something a drug dealer would say," Arthur deadpanned in return, prompting an amused snort from the other.

"You got a point," he chuckled then referred to the remainder of the six pack, "You mind if I put these in the fridge?"

Arthur gestured for him to go ahead and went to go back to the living room.

"Fuck, did a bomb go off in here?" Gilbert joked at the state that the room was in, halting the other in his tracks.

"Sorry about the mess, I was meaning to clean up before Francis got home," Arthur apologised, only mildly embarrassed.

"How can you just leave stuff like this, it would drive me crazy," the notorious neat freak stressed.

"Well, if it bothers you that much feel free to help," Arthur sarcastically suggested.

Glancing at the pile of dishes left to rest in the sink, Gilbert shrugged again. "Okay," he complied and rolled up his sleeves.

"Stop it, Gil, I didn't mean it," the guilty host tried to dissuade but the other waved him off.

"I want to," he insisted, rummaging through his pockets to pull out a pack of papers and a grinder, tossing them to Arthur, "Here, go roll for me, you were always better at it."

Arms plunged elbow deep into the soapy bowl, there was no room for argument, leaving Arthur to do as he was told.

He went across the hall and knelt on the floor by the coffee table, his bruised knees aching, and by the time he had two neatly rolled joints ready and waiting Gilbert was laying out the last clean plate to dry on the rack.

"Hey, Francy Pants won't mind, will he?" Gilbert remembered that someone else lived in the house besides Arthur.

"I doubt it," Arthur dispelled his worries, "What about Liz? She'll smell it on you when you get home."

"She would if she was there. She found a new apartment a week ago," the older man told him as he came through, the slightest hint of disappointment present in his tone despite his forceful attempt to smother it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the Englishman sympathised.

Gilbert only scoffed, however. "What for? I finally have my bathroom back," he masked his evident abandonment with levity and denial, "No more hairballs the size of rats in the shower drain."

Raising a sceptical brow, Arthur gave a breathy laugh as he shook his head, allowing him to believe whatever made him happy.

"You know, I never thought that Ludwig would be the more romantically adept of you two," he muttered sardonically.

Sending him a side glance, Gilbert grumbled, "Just pass me a lighter."

Smirking in return, Arthur slid a lighter over the table into his hand for him to grab eagerly along with one of the rollups.

"I'm so happy you were up for this," Gilbert excitedly beamed, unable to contain his delight.

"It's been a while," Arthur agreed, watching as the older man placed the paper between his lips, lit the end and inhaled deeply, immediately coughing up smoke as it proved far more potent than anticipated.

Derisive laughter emitted the smaller man while his friend struggled for breath, eyes watering, eventually regaining the ability to function. "Shut up, it's fucking strong," he wheezed as he passed the lighter over.

Going about the same process a lot more tentatively than his counterpart, Arthur still felt a scratching in his windpipe and frowned as he breathed out a juddering trail of cotton wool.

"Shit," he stifled a cough and wafted the white plume from his face.

"What the fuck did I tell you," the other chastised.

"Piss off," Arthur swore in retaliation, the air of the living room painted thoroughly blue with the pair's language as they cackled together.

Taking a second hit, a reminiscent bleariness began to warm the back of Arthur's head, as though he were resting back on a pillow someone else had just been lying on, and he was instantly overtaken. A wistfulness brought him back to secret house parties and the late nights in the park sat huddled in a tight circle with the friends he had thought he would never be apart from, passing around the measly gram they could afford.

While it had not been something they would indulge in too frequently, mostly due to funds, he would often find himself and Gilbert to be the only ones taking part at all. Francis had no problem with other people smoking but found he didn't enjoy how it made him feel, Antonio simply chose not to and Elizabeta had always been one of the school's prized athletes, and so refused to touch the stuff. Therefore, the last two had been left to themselves and, out of not wishing to be excluded, would rarely partake. When it was just the two of them, however, that was a different story.

As he thought about it, Arthur realised just how bad a role model Gilbert could be. He may have been the oldest of the group, but he was far from the most mature. Perhaps that was why he liked hanging out with people in the year below him at school. Although, Arthur couldn't claim to be blameless as they tended to bring out one another's inner hedonists in equal measure. But occasionally such gratification was in order, the younger man considered.

"Hey, daydreamer, I was talking to you," the devil on his shoulder spoke, clouds whiter than the ones outside billowing from his lips.

"What was that?" Arthur shook himself from his stupor, finding the effects of his questionable recreations already setting in.

Snorting melodramatically, Gilbert repeated what he had just said. "I said sorry I didn't see a whole lot of you guys at the shower, I got caught up in babysitting."

"Don't worry about it, it was a nice night," Arthur paused to shake his head lightly, lips tilted upward. "I can't believe they're getting married," he pondered, "In my head, Ludwig is still twelve."

"You're telling me," Gilbert lamented, "Feels like yesterday I was taking him to school with me for the first time, now he's off to Italy with his fiancée. I didn't even get an invite."

"You can't third wheel off them forever," Arthur pointed out.

"Why not? He's my brother, I claim rightful ownership," the older man sulked petulantly.

Chuckling at the display, Arthur empathised as he could see his own situation mirrored in his friend. "Do you miss him?" he asked.

A drawn-out exhale flowed from the German as he fiddled with the joint between his fingers. "Not really," he considered, his mouth slanted, "I'm too happy for him."

"Huh," Arthur went quiet as he chewed at the flesh of his mouth, reminded of the looming date that drew ever closer of when he would be forced to say goodbye to his own brother.

"Al's heading off soon, isn't he?" Gilbert seemed to read his mind as he looked over with a solicitous quirk to his mouth, "How's that going for you?"

Considering his words before he spoke, Arthur took in a breath like a reverse sigh as he voiced his concerns. "I worry about him but, it's not about me. I want him to find success," he stated simply but truthfully.

Nodding along, Gilbert glanced over, expression unreadable. "Give him my best," was all he said.

Paper turning to ash in his hand, Arthur found it increasingly difficult to sit upright, slouching against the sofa as he tapped off the excess from his joint into an empty beer can while the pair chatted, their exchanges becoming hard to follow. This wasn't an issue though, as they were happy to shoot the shit and simply enjoy the airy mood. Both sniggering along to something the other had said despite it not being particularly amusing, time meandered by at a pleasantly slowed pace.

At some point the conversation turned to Freide, as Gilbert often caused it to, and Arthur found himself being shown a slide show of pictures of the dog.

"Look how cute she was on the beach," the pet's owner cooed, holding the phone screen closer to his companion's face so that he wouldn't miss the objective adorability.

The perked ears and soft, brown eyes were indisputably sweet, however, and Arthur felt himself internally squee just a little.

"I want a dog," the animal lover pined.

"Get one," Gilbert encouraged as though it were a reasonable impulse buy, "They're not as expensive as you think and they're great company."

It was tempting, he had always wanted a pet but the most his mother had ever allowed him to keep was a goldfish.

"I can't," he bemoaned, "I don't have time to take care of a dog and I don't think Francis really wants one."

"Who said you had to get him involved?" the older man jested, "Just go out, get a dog, come home like 'hey honey, how was your day? By the way, this is our dog now.'"

Scoffing a laugh at his plan, Arthur rejected it. "I'm not sure he'd be too pleased about that," he predicted.

"You sure?" Gilbert satirised. "What about a cat or a hamster or something?"

"Hm," wincing in thought, Arthur liked the idea. Although he loved dogs, he had secretly always been more of a cat person as they seemed to match his personality better. "I suppose I could get a cat. They're less work, after all, and it would be easier to talk Francis round to," he deliberated.

In a way it didn't really matter what animal he chose, he just needed something to make the house seem less vacant.

"Go for it, buddy," the exacerbator cheered him on, cracking open two more beers as a wicked grin carved his face, "It's about time you got some pussy."

Almost choking on his foamy beverage, Arthur narrowed his eyes at the other who had immediately burst into hysterics at his own crass remark, howling into his friend's shoulder.

"Fuck you," he attempted to glower while he could feel his lips being tugged upward.

Both dissolving into laughter that left their cheeks damp with tears, it took them a while to recover, Arthur shoving the larger man off of him as he wiped his face on his sleeve.

Sitting back with an arm thrown over the seat of the sofa behind him, Gilbert's chortling petered away leaving and engrained smile as he looked to his friend. They sat in a congenial silence a few moments, one that the older of them dreaded to break but was about to.

"Hey, I don't mean to put a downer on things but is everything uh…okay?" he carefully put forward.

"What do you mean?" Arthur shot back out of habit, not catching the concerned, crimson gaze.

Raising a hand to scratch the back of his head, Gilbert let out a sound of strenuous thought as he tried again, a little out of his element. "I just meant about the other night…" he trailed off, frowning.

"Oh, right," Arthur had hoped that encounter wouldn't be brought up, but he could hardly act as though it never happened, "I'm sorry about that, and thank you as well, you didn't have to drive me home," he avoided the question.

"Sure, any time man but like…what was going on? Just asking, don't mean to pry but…" the other clumsily faltered.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was talking to someone just as uncomfortable with that sort of thing as he was or perhaps the drugs had managed to loosen him up, but Arthur's resistance crumbled near immediately as he breathed in the last dregs of his joint and dropped it into the makeshift ashtray.

"It's just…life," he brooded, tone wearied, face haggard, "It can get to you sometimes."

Eyebrows subtly lifting, the Germanic man's expression was softer than Arthur had thought it capable of being.

"You okay?" he reiterated, with more weight behind the question this time.

"I will be," he said, even managing to toss a hint of optimism into his words.

With a tight smile back, Gilbert bobbed his head to show he knew what the other was getting at.

"You think you should talk about it with someone?" he suggested, "Someone more qualified than me, I mean."

Expelling a singular laugh through his nose, Arthur mumbled into a sip of beer, "You sound like Matthew." He looked down into his can as he swilled the liquid inside around, frothy bubbles rising to the top. "There's not really any point. It's good for some people, I'm sure, but I doubt it would work for me," he rebuffed, failing to give his advice a chance.

"Don't knock it till you try, you'd be surprised how effective it can be. I know I was," the older man casually mentioned.

Pricking up at the comment, Arthur couldn't hold down the sizable brow that hitched up a notch of its own accord. "You've tried it?" he questioned, not meaning to sound as surprised as he did but too intrigued to let the revelation slip by.

Gilbert wasn't offended by his reaction though and glanced over to affirm with a thoughtful nod.

"Ja, a little while after Grandpa died," he elaborated, "Lud and I went to grief counselling for a couple of weeks."

"Sorry, I had no idea…" Arthur stumbled over the subject as, although well acquainted with the reaper himself, he still found speaking about other people's deceased relatives horrifically awkward.

"Stop apologising," the other tutted, "It's not like you killed him."

Lips twitching at the morbid joke, the younger man was curious but refused to probe into such a personal topic. Gilbert, however, didn't seem to mind sharing as he continued without prompting.

"It was my idea, not for myself though, for West. I mean, neither of us dealt with it great but Grandpa was kind of his idol, so he was pretty devastated," he rambled comfortably as he picked at the dirt under his nails, "and I didn't see any harm in trying it out, so I gave it a chance."

"And how was it?" Arthur urged, feeling himself being the slightest bit swayed.

An odd smile slanted Gilbert's face as he tried to come up with the words to describe what he was thinking, forehead wrinkling at the same time as a puff of air blew past his lips.

"It's weird," he came out with at last, "You go in thinking there's no way talking to a total stranger can help you through something so personal but when you're in there it's…it's more like you're talking to yourself. You get to look at yourself from the outside and it helps you realise what you really need to do." His expression, that had become increasingly tense with every word, broke as he chuckled. "That probably doesn't make much sense, but it was really good for both of us. Now when I look back I can focus on the good times we had, and it brought Ludwig and I closer as family and all that sentimental shit. I recommend it."

Humming to himself as he took in the information as best he could in his impaired faculties, Arthur couldn't deny that his argument was convincing. If all of that had come out of just giving it a go for a few weeks, then perhaps there was hope for him. Then again, he had no one to go with and he wasn't fond of being the centre of attention, left alone with someone he didn't know psychoanalysing him to oblivion.

He jumped as the packet, containing half of what it had when his guest had first arrived, was tossed into his lap.

"Hey, roll the rest of that while I go find snacks, I'm fucking starving," Gilbert delegated, getting up to go and forage through his host's cupboards.

He didn't reply, grinding up the fluffy little balls and sprinkling the green flecks he was left with into the papers as his mind was preoccupied with absorbing what had just been shared. Gilbert wasn't one to spill his guts for no reason and to tell Arthur something like that, he must have been coming from a place of real concern. He could appreciate that.

Returning from over the hall with the last two beers and his arms full of whatever he could carry, the older man dropped his bounty onto the coffee table, snorting a supressed giggle to himself, ready to resume. They both lit up as Gilbert began eating his way through Arthur's kitchen, Arthur happy to let him do so.

Hoisting himself up onto the sofa, the younger man laid back along the length of it, staring at the ceiling as he felt a new mood shift in, a pensive one that he knew better than to try and fight. His gaze flitting over to the other briefly, he watched as the older man stuffed his face and could sense a question, one he didn't mean to ask, boiling in the back of his throat.

"Gil," he addressed to gain his companion's attention, said companion pausing his feast to look over with bloodshot eyes, "Are we…still friends?"

It sounded so pathetic when said out loud that he almost cringed, pinpricks of heat tingling across his neck as he stared the older man dead in the eye, waiting for an answer.

Unprepared for such a question, Gilbert's forehead creased as he blinked back with drooping lids.

"You think I'd share the quality stuff with just anyone?" he quipped back, "Course we are, buddy. Why would you even ask that?"

Deeply embarrassed by his obvious insecurity, Arthur shrugged, gaze falling. "I don't know, it's just that nowadays we only see each other when there's a specific reason to," he admitted, "I know that sort of thing is bound to happen as you get older, but we never used to need an excuse to hang out."

"Didn't have a reason to come and see you now but here I am," the older man sent him a pointed look that made him feel even more ridiculous for having brought it up.

"I suppose," he acknowledged.

Diverting his eyes as he swept the hair from his face, Arthur missed the look of placid nostalgia that rested upon his friend's features.

"Don't worry, I'd never deprive you of my greatness," the egotist assured him, his care-free demeanour lightening the atmosphere so that the quiet that came afterwards was a pleasant one.

The room cast in elongated shadows from the angle of the setting sun, both men were satisfied to remain there together, seeing by the glow of their lighters as they got increasingly stoned.

"So, what is going on with you and Liz?" Arthur piped up after some time, "Friends with benefits? Something on the side?"

"I have no idea what you could be talking about," the other unconvincingly feigned ignorance, receiving a harsh laugh when Arthur refused to accept his answer.

"Come on, you know I can keep a secret," he coerced, knowing he would get the other to break one way or another.

"She would cut off my fucking balls if she found out I told you," Gilbert aggrandised out of much justified fear.

"I swear on my grave I shall not breath a word," Arthur promised, his hand over his chest for emphasis.

Smirking in triumph as he watched the German's face contort under the peer pressure, he beamed as the other cracked.

"Fine, but if she finds out you owe me your balls as compensation," he griped, leaning in with the same exhilarated smirk.

From the end of the street, Francis could smell that distinctive scent and, unless Mrs Kingsly across the road was more liberal than she came across, he had a pretty good idea where it was coming from. Through the open living room window, wispy tendrils carried the sound of lagging conversation and all he could do was heave a resigned sigh as he twisted his key in the lock.

The fumes knocking him back like he'd walked into a wall, he waved a hand in front of his face to try and clear a path of breathable air as he came through the hall. Stopping to look in on the front room, Francis instantly homed in on the culprits, expressions static, eyes unblinking as they stared at the TV that played some colourful children's cartoon with comical focus.

"Ah, Gilbert, so good of you to come and keep Arthur company while I was out," he drawled, slightly put out.

Both human statues turning their heads at the presence they hadn't yet noticed, the instigator of what he had walked in on bared his teeth in a devil may care grin.

"No problem, just keeping him out of trouble," he asserted, seemingly sincere and unironic.

Holding back a snort, Francis only rolled his eyes as he knew his friend meant well. "This is why we do not let you two spend time together unchaperoned," he countered, shaking his head as he looked over the disarray, eyes stopping at the disordered but obliviously contented face of his lover.

"I'm glad you're back," he greeted, smiling with such blind sweetness that Francis couldn't stop his heart from melting just a little.

"You two had fun today then," he raised a brow and glanced at both in turn.

Looking up from the armrest his head leant upon with misty eyes, Arthur felt the slightest twinge of guilt. "You don't mind, do you? I'll clean it up tomorrow," he pledged.

"It is alright," Francis didn't mind the pair's antics, admittedly happy his partner had been able to let off some steam, even if his method of doing so was somewhat illegal, "I do wish you had warned me though."

"But then we'd have to invite you and there'd be less for us," Gilbert teased as he struggled his way up with the help of the coffee table.

"You are leaving?" Francis deduced as the other began to haphazardly lumber towards the hall.

"My job here is done, I must move on," the older man proclaimed.

"You are not about to drive, are you? Do you want me to call you a ride?" the most rational member of the group followed him as he let himself out.

"I'm walking, I'll be fine," Gilbert called back, already half way down the drive, "Later losers."

Shaking his head once more as he let his friend wander off, Francis swung the door closed and returned to his partner, disregarding the mess to come and sit beside him on the sofa with a peck on the cheek. He relaxed back into the cushions, tipping to the side as he half leaned against the limp form next to him.

"I want a cat."

One brow twitching upward at the demand, Francis glanced sideways at the semi-conscious face.

"A cat?" he echoed, the smaller man nodding in return. "Perhaps we should discuss that in the morning," he persuaded gently.

Again, the other agreed with a gesture of his head, mumbling something as he buried his face further into the little pillow nest he had created.

A twisting smile morphed the face of the older man and he reached over to rouse his lover; smoking had always had a sort of sedative effect on him. Guiding him up to bed, the destruction was left for their future selves to worry about.

Regretting this decision as soon as he woke, Arthur expelled a loathsome sigh, staring at the wall with empty eyes. As he had worried it would, one bad habit had brought out the need for another that he sorely missed as he craved tobacco. He dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, finding them crusted and itchy, but couldn't dislodge the residual fatigue that lingered behind them.

Wishing the day was over already, he dragged himself from the depths of his duvet and procrastinated dealing with the aftermath with a long shower before finally venturing down. Glancing around the door into the living room though, he found a majority of the mess had already been cleared, the coffee table and floor free of any evidence.

He turned the other way at the sound of clattering dishes, standing just inside the kitchen where Francis was at work, scrubbing the charred remains of whatever he and Gilbert had thought to be a good idea to make.

"You don't have to do that, let me take care of it," he offered, swaying over to the sink where his partner stood.

Casting an easy smile back over his shoulder, the older man shrugged him off.

"I woke up early and could not get back to sleep so I thought I would do something useful with the time," he chirped.

Unable to understand how someone could be such a morning person, Arthur still felt guilty over allowing someone else to clean up his mess and grabbed a dishcloth to wipe down the counters.

Opening his mouth to apologise a yawn trailed out instead, catching him off guard. He hid the display of exhaustion behind his forearm, a ringing in both ears overpowering the sound of his partner's voice.

"Pardon?" he vocalised through the tail end of the yawn, coming out slurred.

Chuckling lightly, Francis repeated himself. "I said, take a look at what we got in the post," he nodded at the table where several letters were stacked, one of particular interest left at the top of the pile.

The picture of a sunny Melbourne beach was a giveaway as to who it was from, but Arthur turned the postcard over to read the short message anyhow. Skimming over his cousins' yearly Christmas catch-up, a miniscule smile ghosted his lips as he noted how similar the Australian was to Alfred and, likewise, how the younger of his two cousins reminded him of Matthew. They were all close in age, so he supposed it wasn't surprising, but it amused him nonetheless. However, it had been years since he'd last seen them, so he had a hard time picturing them as adults.

"I am sure Christmas comes faster each year," Francis sighed as he did every year, "I really do not feel festive at all."

"I know," Arthur seconded the thought, not that he ever got especially into the seasonal spirit. While he had used to enjoy the holiday, he thought Christmas was more for kids or people with kids. It had still been fun when Alfred and Matthew were young, but they weren't anymore and his fears of what would happen when they were both old enough to stop spending the holidays at home had come true.

Placing the card back down, he took a breath to quell the anxiety that had begun to brew in him.

"And we have not even started to decorate, we must look like such grinches," Francis continued to worry to himself, making exaggerated gestures with his scouring pad in hand so that soap flew across the room.

"I doubt anyone has noticed," Arthur dismissed as he went about wiping the polished surfaces clean, indifferent towards the holiday that he now considered more a nuisance than something to actually celebrate.

"Well, we must get the decorations up soon or we will have no time to enjoy them," the other wittled, "Did we get rid of the tree when we moved?"

A drained exhale escaping the younger man's nose, he struggled to take in what was being said to him. "I don't know," he droned tiredly.

"No matter," Francis was unperturbed and failed to pick up on the lack of enthusiasm from his significant other, "I wanted to get a real one this year if that is alright with you. I adore the smell of pine needles."

"Sure," Arthur grunted as he tackled with a particularly stubborn spot of grease, hair continually flopping into his eyes.

"We can go and pick one out with the boys, before Alfred leaves," the older man suggested, "Can you believe how soon that is? It has crept up on us."

Bristling at the comment, Arthur brushed the irritating strands from his face for the tenth time.

"I can't," he replied, tone taught.

"We did not even have the chance to throw him a goodbye party," Francis rued, shaking his head, "He asked if we would help him pack at the weekend, you have the time, oui?"

That simmering apprehension flared up again at the mention of his brother. "Probably," was all he said, though, hoping his curt replies would kill the conversation, however, Francis seemed determined to say the worst possible thing.

"Do you think we should send Paul and Linda a card?" he wondered aloud, "I know you do not like them so much, but I feel a gesture of goodwill would not be a bad idea. They are letting Alfred stay with them, after all."

A disdainful scowl creasing his face, Arthur glanced over at the suggestion. "I'd rather not," he voiced his contempt for the idea.

Shrugging, Francis hummed. "It was just a thought."

The subject finally dropped, Arthur focused on the same stain he had been trying to get out before, but the mention of the two Americans had left a bad taste in his mouth. He knew he was unfairly harsh on them, but he just wasn't able to see them as reliable people after what they had done. Perhaps he was projecting his own experiences with estranged family members onto them, but he couldn't help that. He felt he knew best and the instinct to protect his brothers just took over.

What's more, he worried about Alfred being around them alone. It hadn't been so unsettling for him to let both the twins go off on their own before as, although he still had his concerns, he knew that Matthew had enough common sense for the both of them, whereas Alfred by himself was a potential disaster. He was capable of looking after himself and not as absent minded as people would often believe but for every admirable trait the boy had, there was a downside. He was sociable and outgoing but too eager to please, open minded but easily persuaded, positive but naïve. When his more rational counterpart wasn't around, things could get out of hand and Arthur feared what could happen when he was left with others that had already proven themselves irresponsible.

"So, I know you said you did not like blue for the living room, but I picked up some colour charts yesterday," Francis cut through his inner processing, sliding some tabs of paper along the counter towards him.

Giving his attention to the sample strips briefly, his complete antipathy towards the colour scheme of their home in that moment caused them to all appear the same shade to him.

"They're nice," he answered disinterestedly, arm beginning to ache from scouring.

"I like this one, 'Campbell's Bay'," Francis made his case, pointing at one on the charts, "But you were right, it does seem a little cold. We could try something darker, but that would be harder to paint over if we changed our minds."

"Sure," Arthur attempted to make his single word responses sound as invested as he could whilst his preoccupied mind nagged at him, trying to get him to relent to the restive stress inside.

"I am thinking, perhaps, between these three?" the other narrowed down their options, pointing to his shortlist.

Teeth clenched, Arthur looked over through his dangling fringe. "I don't know, they all look rather similar," he confessed, agitation crawling below the surface.

Turning the charts to study them, Francis squinted in thought, holding them up to compare with the light. "I like the one that is more grey but then again, that could be a little drab. Anything too bright would be overbearing, though. What do you think, understated or bold?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know, Francis, I don't know what I prefer," Arthur snapped, his short tether reaching its end from the unintentional provocation, hair falling all over his face yet again as he shook his head, "Right now I don't really care and good fucking God this hair is pissing me off."

Eyes frantically wide as he stared at the man he undeservedly flared at, said man recoiled slightly, looking back with his brows held aloft in worried confusion. Parting his lips to try and help whatever the situation had just turned into, Arthur spoke first, instant regret forming and joining the abundance of other unchecked emotions that currently controlled him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that I just…I don't know, I woke up in a bad mood today," his excuse was pathetic, but he didn't want to get into his entire thought process.

"I understand, amore, please, calm down," Francis eased, reaching a hand out to lay upon Arthur's forearm.

Instinctively stepping back from the contact, the increasingly tense man looked from the outstretched arm to the patient face of his lover and caught himself about to repeat his regular pattern of behaviour.

"I mean I care about what colour you want it-I want to care but, I just, I was thinking about something else, I," he made an effort to shed some light on his feelings, to stop the cycle, but found none of his thoughts connected, what he meant and what he said sounding completely disjointed.

"Arthur, slow down, you are making this harder for yourself," the more composed of the two levelled his gaze, trying to tame the other's wildly darting eyes.

Shifting his weight between legs as though they wanted him to walk away, Arthur raised a hand to run his roughly through his tousled mane, gripping a clump of hair tight in his fist.

"I don't know why it's not making sense," he sounded almost insulted, as though his voice refused to cooperate just to antagonise him.

"Relax and the words will come to you," Francis assured him, again extending an arm, fingers brushing his partner's skin.

But again, Arthur flinched from the lightest touch, so many jumbled sentences trying to fight their way from his mouth that they collided, none making it past his lips.

"But they won't," he barked, anger with himself frothing over, "Even when I try to…"

Able to feel his frustration, Francis held him in his softest gaze. "We will choose a colour another time," he mitigated with a smile in appreciative recognition of the effort the more closed off man had made.

Arthur hid his vexation behind an expressionless visage as Francis leant in to peck him on the cheek, prising a smile in return when he pulled away and holding it until his back was turned, his frenzied temper still writhing within him.

Another spontaneous outburst remaining a threat, Arthur looked to seclude himself so as to spare his lover his unhinged wrath. He headed into the hallway, almost colliding with the doorframe as he became inexplicably unsteady on his feet, to the call of, "Where are you going?"

"I just need some air," his voice spasmed as he halted abruptly in the hallway.

He had wanted to go out for a smoke but with that option taken from him his legs led him upstairs, for some reason carrying him into the bathroom. Perhaps because it was the coldest room in the house, the tiled walls and floor giving it a perpetually icy air.

Closing the door behind him, more violently than was necessary, he paced the few steps of space between the door and the bath, running both hands through his hair. Heart fluttering unevenly, he attempted to placate it with deep breaths that came too shallow and rapid to help.

Both hands balling into fists, entwined in clumps of unruly hair, Arthur ceased his two and froing, gritting his teeth as fevered energy overwhelmed him. Sitting heavily on the edge of the bath, he doubled over, pulling at the strands between his fingers. Over the static stress of his thoughts came his pounding heartbeat, the pulse echoing in his ears, and he squeezed his eyelids together as though hoping to shut out all sensory stimulation and maybe find some quiet.

The fuzzing thrum only became louder however, the pressure building to the point he feared he may deafen himself. Eyes snapping open, he released his grip and stood, vision blurring out completely for a moment so that he wavered. Catching a hold of the sink to steady himself, he leaned dependently upon the bathroom counter, waiting for the faintness to subside.

This was why he refused to open up, to let things out, because when he did he lost control of them. Whenever he opened his mouth, the words seemed to snowball into a fucking avalanche, taking on a dangerous force of their own that he couldn't shield people from. He just wanted to be normal again, to function like anyone else, and he didn't understand why he was being so consistently punished for his attempts. Any time he tried to express himself to someone who may want to help, all it would result in was hurt feelings or total despair and one day, soon probably, his promises to do better, to be better, would fall on ears too sceptical to offer him the benefit of the doubt.

Raising his head, he stared directly into the darkened eyes of his reflected image. They bore into him, hatred behind their emerald sheen, tumultuous to their innermost depths like riptides out at sea. He glared through the golden strands that tickled the bridge of his nose at his replica, the snarl that curled his lip thrown back at him mockingly, one obscured eye twitching.

A grunt emitted his throat as he pushed himself away from the sink, as though trying to escape the man that mimicked him but, of course, he did the same. Striding side to side again, the doppelganger kept pace, sneering back whenever Arthur glanced up to meet his joyless eyes, always there, taunting him. Of course, he could never escape.

Pursing his lips together, he looked over, the same expression being shown back to him, a half strangled, gasping breath parting the man's lips. He clasped a hand to his forehead to pull the fringe from his face, scraping at the individual hairs that were plastered to his skin with his nails. Gaze darting back to the madman in the mirror, frazzled hair a knotted mess, cheeks flushed, and teeth bared like an animal, he felt the sting of angered tears, saw the redness of them in the other's eyes, but gulped them back.

Dropping to his knees, still clutching his hair, he flung open the cabinets under the sink, knocking out the products that lined the shelf onto the floor until he found what he was looking for. He took the scissors from the very back, caution thrown to the wind, wound his fringe into one thick strand and readied the scissors to make the decisive cut.

The blades slid every which way as he sawed through his thick mane, locks of it falling before his eyes and onto the tiles in chunks. Handles digging into his fingers with the force it took to slice through, he eventually severed the last strings, pulling away a handful that he dropped at his side, most of it clinging to his clammy palms. Wiping his hands down his trousers, he stood back up, trying to knock the dead hair from his clothes with little success, threads of gold covering him and the room.

It had been a mistake to allow such impulsive behaviour to take over him, the energy that whirred inside him, born of frustration, intensifying, even more chaotic than before, looking for progressively more extreme outlets. Running his fingers through the bristly leftovers of his fringe he took a swaying step backwards and stumbled over the containers that littered the floor, falling shoulder first into the wall. He blasphemed, righted himself and kicked the items from under his feet.

Breath coming and going in sharp pants, he became light headed, leaning back against the wall for support, scissors slipping from his grip with a metallic clatter as his appendages lost all feeling. Pulse racing like he was on speed, chills ran over his body, yet his neck was on fire. Flexing his fingers to try and induce some blood flow, the desensitisation ran further up his arm.

He staggered back to the counter, arms like dead weight. Looking down at his right hand he clenched it into the tightest fist he could make, watched his fingers curl, knuckles turn white but felt nothing, even when jagged nails dug into his palm. He grasped harder still, a growl tearing from him as rage enveloped his judgement and he drew back his fist to punch the wall.

The crack with which his knuckles connected with the solid tiles did nothing to satisfy, unable to feel the pain he should have done, and so he pulled back to slam his hand against them again, putting the full weight of his body into it. Another horribly dense crunch, then another and so on as he willed the pain to make him feel normal again.

Any form of rational thought barred from his mind, he retracted his fist once more, propelling it straight towards the wall with as much force as he could project but realised, too late, that he was off his mark. Unable to stop it, Arthur had a split second to make eye contact with the man behind the glass before his face was shattered into a dozen fragments, the mirror splitting and falling to the ground, blood spattering the wall.

Razor shards cascaded to the floor with and almighty smash, splintering further as they struck the ground, glittering like puddles of glass. Body tensing, time seemed to almost stop completely, silence falling as the consequences of his actions dawned on him and he cast his eyes to the destruction around him as he stood panting.

He looked down at the mess he had made of his knuckles. Bright crimson seeped from the slashes across them, already forming rivulets that ran down his fingers. Hand shaking, he lifted his arm, staring at it, lips hanging apart as he remained frozen.

"Arthur!"

Time jolted back into motion with the cry of his partner followed by the beating of accelerated footsteps, forcing Arthur to react.

"It's nothing, I'm fine!" he shouted back as he lunged across the room to snap the door lock into place.

Keeping his hand aloft, he gripped his wrist to try and cut off the blood flow, however, the viscous fluid continued to flow over his other hand and down his forearm.

The doorknob rattled, and a pounding came from the other side as Francis demanded to be let in.

"I said I'm fine, don't come in!" Arthur yelled, panic searing his tone.

He knew Francis would get in eventually, the lock was old and wouldn't hold if he kept battering it and he would surely have the worst possible reaction if he walked in on the scene as it currently was, leaving Arthur to cast his gaze hopelessly about the room. He looked to the towel rack for something to wrap around his injuries but saw it empty. Grabbing some toilet roll as a substitute, the flimsy paper was soaked through in seconds, the same happening when he tried to use his shirt. Remembering they kept a roll of bandages under the sink, he fell to the floor to search through the carnage, drops of scarlet smearing over whatever he touched.

Rattling bolts gradually wriggling themselves free with the help of the increasingly distraught man out in the hallway, Arthur crouched amongst the carpet of broken glass and hair, eyes darting over as the lock gave way. The door flew open, revealing the panic-stricken face of his partner, his eyes widening as the colour drained from his skin.

"Mon Dieu, Arthur what did you do?!" he shrieked, staring in horror.

Before Arthur could attempt to ease his fraught assumptions, Francis had hurled himself to the floor beside him, taking his bloodied wrists and turning them over, scanning his forearms. Terror creasing his face, he attempted to wipe the syrupy liquid away in vain, as though trying to uncover something.

"What have you done, Arthur? What did you do?" he beseeched, voice cracking, spiralling into hysterics.

Frowning down, a sickening pang of guilt twisted Arthur's guts as he saw his lover's hands slick with his blood and his gaze desperately scouring his veins, trying to find where he thought it flowed from.

"Oh, Francis, no. Oh God, no," he hurried, turning his hand over to show Francis who stared back, eyes glassy, "Look, it's just my hand, I'm fine, I'm fine."

He held the petrified gaze as the older man looked at his battered knuckles, expression easing to one of overwhelming relief.

"Why do you fucking scare me like that?" he stammered in a whisper, breaths slowing and juddering, "Merde, Arthur…"

Trying to hold back the tears that had already formed was no use as they spilled over, rolling down his cheeks, lips turning to an inverted smile.

"Come on now, Francis, there's no need for that," Arthur shushed, reaching out to embrace him tightly.

Letting out a sputtered sob as he was pulled to his lover's chest, Francis clung onto the smaller body, burying his face into the skeletal shoulder. The violent shifts of emotion too much to process, the intensity of it all flooded from him through quietly rasping cries.

"Vous êtes un putain de trou du cul," he swore through wet hiccups.

"I am, aren't I," the other tenderly lulled, stroking his lover's back with one hand, "I'm sorry I scared you, my darling, I would never do that to you. You know I couldn't."

A stuttering gasp was his only reply as he felt a hand grip the back of his neck and another bunch into the fabric of his shirt. Planting a kiss on the side of the flaxen head, Arthur allowed himself to be used as a tissue, his soft consolations interspersed with heartfelt apologies.

Tears eventually ceasing, sporadic chokes calming to more controlled breaths, Francis loosened his hold, no longer afraid the man he clutched would go anywhere if he let go. Sniffing several times before he moved away, he pulled his blotchy face from the crease of his partner's neck, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeves to dry the salty sheen that still covered them.

Remorse tugging at his throat, Arthur reached over to stop the other from gouging his eyeballs out. "Stop it, you'll make it worse," he gently chided, taking his own sleeve to dab at the few drops that threatened to trickle down.

Francis said nothing, however, lip quivering slightly. Obviously still fragile after the shock, he simply looked back at Arthur with sad, round eyes.

"Are you okay?" the younger man asked, raising an eyebrow.

The other nodded, glancing away.

Sighing, Arthur did the same, biting the inside of his lip, but then looked back, offering a sheepish grin.

"So, like what I did with it?" he tenuously joked, combing his fingers through his utterly butchered hair, "You were right, it was getting too long."

Gaze flitting over to see the mess his partner had made, Francis' lips twitched upward slightly. He attempted to supress a chuckle but found it tumbling from him nonetheless as he shook his head.

"You had better book an appointment at the hairdressers because there is no way I can save that disaster," he croaked good naturedly in return, wiping his persistently runny nose on his wrist, leaving a thin smudge of blood there.

Exhaling through a repentant smile, Arthur didn't dare look at the room around him.

"I know my apologies probably don't mean much anymore but I really don't mean for things like this to happen," he fully accepted the results of his careless actions, expecting no sympathy in return, "I'll get this cleaned up and buy a new mirror and I'll do the downstairs too."

"Ne sois pas stupide, I will take care of it later. Let us deal with you first," Francis prioritised, casting a concerned glance at his partner's injured hand.

With the adrenaline wearing off, the pain had started to set in, his knuckles swollen and pulsating as he instinctually held the appendage against his body.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he argued.

"Well, it looks like you might need stitches," Francis retorted, gesturing to see the damage.

"That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?" the other trivialised, rousing an unimpressed expression from his counterpart. Stiffly moving his hand, Arthur flexed his fingers as best he could, barely able to move them at all. "See, it's not so bad," he grimaced.

Rolling his eyes, the older man stood and carefully knocked the particles of glass and hair from his clothes. "Allons, we will clean you up," he muttered, leading them down to the kitchen where the emergency first aid kit was stored.

Arthur gingerly rinsed the tacky substance off in the sink, watching how it swirled down the drain like red wine, whilst Francis found what he needed. Unfortunately, they had somewhat of a routine when it came to such incidents as the short-tempered Englishman could be a rowdy drunk and many a night out had ended similarly. Although, had Francis been asked he wouldn't have admitted that he enjoyed it just the tiniest bit.

Gently patching up the lacerated skin, hearing only the occasional stifled hiss of pain, Francis agreed that a trip to A and E wasn't necessary and simply wrapped the already forming bruise in a layer of gauze.

"There," he finished off, taping the bandage into place, "I would say good as new, but I am surprised that the bones in your hand are not dust at this point."

Laughing easily at the gruesome imagery, Arthur leaned over the table and placed a chaste yet prolonged kiss upon his lover's velveteen lips.

"Thank you for keeping me in one piece, dear," he murmured sweetly, and could tell all was forgiven by the whisper of a smile that tickled the other's cheeks.

He pressed their mouths together once more before standing to pull his phone from his pocket, flicking through it with some difficulty as he was forced to use his left hand. Reluctantly raising the device to his ear, he began to wander out of the room as the other end of the line rang.

"What are you doing?" Francis raised a brow at the disinclined expression his partner held.

A worn-down sigh flowed freely from his lungs as Arthur glanced back over his shoulder.

"I'm calling the fucking therapist's office," he said as the receiver picked up with a click.

* * *

I have an Amino so come follow me on there if you want. My user is Jasper and I post mostly polls and prompts. We can chat about fanfiction and stuff.

Translations

Putain d'enfer – Fucking hell

Si bruyant – So noisy

Pauvre lapin – Poor bunny rabbit

Vous êtes un putain de trou du cul – You're a fucking asshole

Ne sois pas stupide – Don't be stupid

So, I love PrUK as a friend ship and I don't think the dynamic gets enough attention. They're pretty similar personality wise when you think about it and I think everyone needs that friend that encourages them to do bad stuff every now and then. Sorry if this chapter got a bit emo at the end, I didn't mean it to, but I hope you still liked it. Follow, favourite and review.

Edit: I'm not going on hiatus but in the next three months there will probably only be one chapter because nothing ever goes right for me. Sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

A true Englishman will never trust a sunny day. Its warmth is too tenuous, too easily obscured by the clouds that never venture far and is therefore difficult to enjoy. As Arthur sat with his back to the yellow rays that filtered through the window, their light illuminating the dust that floated through the air, he couldn't help but reminisce over past spontaneous days of sunshine.

Whether mid-winter or the hottest month of the year, his mother had never failed to capitalize on the sun's rare appearance, packing up the family and whisking them out the door to wherever she set her heart in that moment. Quite frequently they would find themselves trudging home in the rain, all of them exhausted and at least one of the twins hoisted up over someone's shoulders half asleep, but with joy etched onto their faces. No such expression touched his lips then, however, as it was only a memory and not one that he was granted the time to lose himself to.

Above the sound of whirring clippers and hair driers he was called to attention by the man that flounced down to meet him.

"Arthur, it's been a long time. Good to see you again," Feliks greeted in his usual drawn out lilt, flashing his best customer service smile, "Come down and take a seat."

He turned his back and led Arthur further into the small salon, stopping by a free chair which the other awkwardly slipped into.

"So, what are we doing today?" the smaller man cut straight to the chase as he stood at the back of the chair and began to run his hands through the uneven locks.

Body stiffening at the unfamiliar touch, Arthur resisted the urge to pull away. "I was, um, just hoping you'd be able to fix…this," he gestured to the frayed looking bangs that clashed with the rest of his overgrown mop, glancing at the reflection of the man behind him in the intrusively large mirror he sat before.

Feliks hummed, squinting at what he had to work with the way a sculpture would a block of marble, pulling the sandy strands taught between his fingers.

"Sure, I appreciate a challenge," he accepted with a nod, "What should I do with the rest of it?"

Ignoring the sly insult, Arthur shrugged a shoulder, uncaring. "I don't really mind, just make it match?"

Again, bobbing his head, immaculately kept blond locks swaying around his jaw, Feliks disappeared into a back room briefly to return with his tools.

Nervously watching the reflection as he took a pair of scissors in hand and looked for where to make the first cut, Arthur was unable to control the accelerated beating in his chest. It had been years since he had been to an actual barber; with their budget it had been a choice of Francis doing his best with a pair of kitchen scissors over the sink or letting it grow out. Not that he was complaining, in fact he would have rather had Francis do it, unsure if he was comfortable with a man he would usually avoid a hand shake with holding a pair of blades so close to his neck.

Taking a breath through his nose, he told himself not to be so paranoid and forcibly released his grip on the arms of the chair.

"So, how are you and Francis doing? I heard you got a new place together on the west side of town, going up in the world I see," the infamous town gossip made conversation, slicing through a thick chunk with ease.

Eye quivering at the crunching sound, Arthur's muscles tightened once more.

"Yes, we moved a few months ago, it's going well, thank you," he exchanged pleasantries through gritted teeth.

"Tor and I were thinking of moving, you know. We've been checking out apartments over there," Feliks continued casually, blades snapping with the speed of a butterfly's wings, "We've just run out of space, our place is so small, you know what I mean? I need a new project."

"Sure, of course," the progressively on edge man vaguely responded, wishing the other would pay more attention to what his hands were doing rather than what came from his mouth.

"And thinking about the future as well, like, we can't keep renting forever. Head up," the smaller man directed, placing a delicate finger under Arthur's chin to tilt it back.

Doing as he was told, wanting it to be over as quickly as possible, he flinched as fine trimmings littered his face, getting stuck to his lips.

"Mm hm," he vocalised, face twitching as he tried to dislodge the irritation.

A hand redirected the angle of his head once more and he felt the chilled steel press against the vulnerable skin of the back of his neck, more snippets of hair tumbling down the gap of his collar.

"What estate agent did you use?" Feliks mumbled around a comb he held in his mouth.

"I can't remember," Arthur strained, subtly inching away from the metal touch, "I'm sorry, but do you think this will take long? I have to get to my office after."

He didn't wish to appear rude but had come woefully unequip for the small talk he should have expected.

Feliks kissed his teeth in thought and shifted his weight. "Like forty minutes maybe," he replied, "You've got a lot of hair."

Holding in a sigh, Arthur went quiet, resigning himself to the situation.

The scent of overly masculine fragrances and product saturated the air to such an extent he could taste them as plumes of mist were sprayed over his head, only adding to the smell. So called 'all natural' serums chocked full of artificial, faux organic extracts stung his nose and eyes and he could feel the beginnings of niggling pain in his head from it all.

Whatever was popular that month played on the store radio, the chart hits interspersed with the occasional Christmas classic. Behind him, the Polish native had given up on conversation, clearly sensing his client's reluctance, and happily hummed along to Mariah Carey as he dropped handfuls of his mane to the floor.

"Ugh, I would kill for hair this thick," he envied, "Is that, like, an English thing, or what?"

"Genetics, I suppose," Arthur considered, looking at himself in the mirror to see half his head significantly trimmed down. Although feeling somewhat overly exposed, it was too late to change it and so he found himself not arguing with the other's creative vision. It was better than anything he could manage, after all.

He was loath to watch the man reflected for too long, however, as more of the pallid face was revealed than he had seen in some time. Without the wispy stray strands to frame his features he was starkly aware of how hollow his cheeks appeared, the skin caved in where there was no bone structure to support it. His eyes, also sunken and enclosed between wrinkled, deep purple lids, were disproportionately large, almost protruding out from his shrunken skull. The eyeballs themselves, shaded by the cavernous sockets they hid deep within, had darkened in their shade of green. Either from the accentuated shadow of his brow bone or a reflection of his mood, the once bright forest colour was tinged by a murky sludge, a layer of grime over the glassy surface.

Blinking his gaze down, he instead picked at a loose string from the bandage that covered his hand, concealing the worst of the damage. A blueish, plum bruise seeped from behind the coverings though, down his middle and ring fingers and he couldn't resist the compulsion to poke at it. Squeezing one of the twig-like appendages between his finger and thumb, the pressure produced a short, biting ache and he let go of it again, not sure what else he had expected to happen.

Little tumbleweeds of yellow hair cascaded down his neck, the sensation like a million ant legs, and managed to find their way into his shirt, as he knew they would. The back of his neck spasmed, an uncontrollable action as his body reacted to the unpleasant touch, but it didn't solve anything. All he could do was sit and bare it as he gave polite but curt returns to the occasional line of small talk, the whole of his being tenser by the second.

"Okay, hang on just a minute, I'll be super quick," Feliks broke his own line of one sided conversation and quickly sashayed back into the store room, leaving Arthur alone.

Immediately raising his hand to his neck, Arthur scraped at the irritated skin like a man possessed, scratching at it as best he could with his non-existent nails. Gritting his teeth as the satisfaction was addictive he abruptly stopped when he saw the other return from the corner of his vision.

"I'm going to clean up the back, okay?" he sounded rather pleased with himself and Arthur couldn't help but feel his enthusiasm and effort was wasted on himself.

Plugging the electric razor he held into the wall, Feliks bent himself to a strange angle where he could create the straight line he aimed for with exact perfection. It sprung into motion, blades buzzing a little too close to Arthur's ear and he braced himself as the device was pressed against his neck.

Desperate to pull away, he remained frozen stiff for fear of what a slip of the hand may do, screwing his eyes almost closed, shoulders rising to try and protect the exposed skin. Jaw seizing up as he clenched his teeth to the point of shattering, the high-pitched drone grew louder as the razor carved a path around his right ear, then his left, then ceased, finally allowing him to relax.

Breathing a long-held sigh he hadn't realised he was keeping in, he let his shoulders slowly drop and rolled them a little in their joints, easing the stiffness, whilst Feliks was preoccupied with smearing some waxy looking glue over his hands.

"So, I'm going to style it a little then we're all done, okay?" he rubbed the grey substance between his fingers, most of it dissolving, and moved in to slather it through Arthur's shortened do.

Leaning forward out of his reach, the Englishman would have rather forgone the unnecessary step and gotten on with his day.

"You needn't bother, really, I'm only going to work after this," he excused, forcing a polite, tightened smile at the man behind him through the mirror.

A perfectly plucked brow was arched at him as the other folded his arms, cocking his hip in indignance.

"Would you let me have my fun, please?" he asked with such exaggerated exasperation that Arthur sat back and allowed him to do as he wished.

Running both hands through the short tresses, Feliks worked the product in, pulling the strands along the sides of his head out straight to check that both sides were even then flattening them down with his palms. His fingers smelled of perfumed chemicals and stale cigarettes, but they were warm and the way they expertly handled their work sent a tingle through the uneasy man's core.

It didn't take him long to mould his creation into the shape he envisaged, and he stepped back with a self-satisfied simper.

"You like it?" he enquired, expecting no less than praise.

With a nod, Arthur humoured him. "Yes, it' nice, thanks," he failed to enthuse, lips pressed together in an appreciative expression.

"Of course it is, I did it, you look fabulous," Feliks congratulated himself, leaning over the back of the chair to trace the shape of his client's eyebrow with his finger, "Now we just need to do something with these."

Said eyebrow was raised in retaliation as Arthur bit back his unimpressed retort.

A chuckle fell from the other as his own comments amused him. "I'm only joking," he relented, "I wouldn't subject myself to that."

Raising a hand to self-consciously smooth down the hairs of his brow, Arthur's forehead creased a little at the jibe, but he didn't take it to heart. Having known Feliks for years he had built up a tolerance to his cattiness. The towel around his neck was removed, hair flying into the air like golden snowflakes then twirling to the ground.

"You can pay down at the desk and tell Francis we have to go and get a drink together soon, have a catch-up session, be sure to tell him for me."

"Sure," Arthur consented as he slid from the seat, brushing himself down, "Thanks again."

The other had already set his attentions on his next project, though, as he made his way over to another waiting client with a welcoming smile. Doing as he was instructed, Arthur stepped over the small rug of hair that surrounded where he had been sat, feeling a little bad for whoever would have to clean up after him, and made his way back to the desk.

Deceived by the unseasonal climate, Arthur was caught off guard by the icy gale that whipped past his unprotected ears as he exited the shop. Bitter wisps swept over the back of his neck, like the embrace of a frostbitten lover, and he shivered violently. Flipping up his collar, he hunched his shoulders for coverage but found the chill still got through, his thinned out locks unable to defend against the cold as winter's frigid touch grazed his scalp.

He didn't particularly care for the way Feliks had styled the new look and slowed to a stop outside a nearby store front to make the necessary adjustments. Looking into the windows reflection, he swept a hand over what little he had left, more loose threads coming out between his fingers. Feliks had left him with but a fraction of his mop, the bulk of his hair all plastered forward with some kind of sticky gel that kept it in place while the sides lay flat and bare looking in comparison to what was there before.

Combing his fingers through it, he groomed the look so that it lay more slicked back atop his head but still felt it looked wrong, showing off too much of his forehead. He scrambled his first attempt to start again, this time parting the choppy fringe at the front down the centre and tucking it to the sides. However, it was too short to tuck behind his ears and, despite Feliks' best efforts, the evident butchering his hair had suffered had left the front part uneven beyond immediate repair and would have to grow out before he could properly style it how he usually would.

Again, ruffling the unflattering style, Arthur looked into his translucent reflection and watched his shoulders sag as he found no way to make himself seem presentable. Amongst the rooftops somewhere in the near distance, the clocktower chimed out enough strikes to tell him he was running late. Taking the signal to hurry himself along, Arthur glanced back into the mirroring surface, quickly flipped the irritating, blond mass over to one side and gave a hopeless sigh as he moved on.

The streets were mostly quiet, only the retired and the unemployed around him going about their days, empty busses moving with ease for lack of the traffic which had the roads in a gridlock an hour earlier. Dark splotches on the paving slabs showed evidence of a rainy night and a crispness filled the air, the heavy atmosphere of decay felt throughout autumn and the beginning of winter finally having been washed away by the stark coming of the year's coldest months. That mornings white light had managed to dispel most of the dampness, however, no puddles left lining the gutters, and so Arthur walked close to the curb without fear.

From between column like buildings, the arctic sun played hide and seek, scorching his eyes whenever it jumped out from the stone blockades to ambush him. Wincing every time, floating greenish, blobs obscured his vision and he narrowly avoided colliding with a lamppost more than once, but before long he was protected from the glare as he entered the foyer of his building.

Automated doors parting for him, Arthur dragged his feet across the marble threshold and into the elevator, crammed in alongside his colleagues like a sardine. The discomfort was brief, though, as the claustrophobic space emptied out before he reached his floor, only himself left inside by the time he stepped out since those who worked above him, in position and location, had been in for hours by that point. He didn't envy them.

Glancing over the heads of his fellow office rats as he passed their cubicles, he gazed out the window for as long as he could before he would be closed away in his granite box for the rest of the day. He made the most of his view whilst he could, knowing by the time he escaped the sun would be on its way to the other side of the world, as though the northern hemisphere could only tolerate its presence for so long.

Yet his pace didn't slow, as pragmatically brisk as ever. It seemed wrong to dawdle in an office, the atmosphere so thick with communal stress that one might get stuck if moving too slowly, and Arthur was soon turning down the foreboding corridor that led to his office.

The ceiling above him dropped, the natural light of the window blocked out instantly and, despite how low the fluorescent bulbs hung, the short stretch of hallway was dingy. Sounds of other humans grew distant and muffled and the scent of synthetic, grey carpeting became more noticeable as less feet had walked this section of the office and the pungent smell remained unworn. Turning the corner, Arthur readied his keys in his pocket, assuming his office had been left alone in his absence and prepared to wile away the next eight hours in painstaking, solitary function.

He blinked slowly and let a sigh filter through him as he walked the short distance down the adjacent corridor that lead to his office but stopped short when he found, to his mild confusion, someone waiting for him. A half-shadowed form hunched by the doorway, crouching low with a slip of paper in their hand that they were about to slide under the crack below the door. Although the person's face was covered by their shoulder length, ashen brown hair, Arthur instantly knew by their size who his visitor must be.

"Erika?"

He questioned to gain her attention but, in spite of his gentle tone, the poor girl almost fell flat on her ass at the shock of being addressed so unexpectedly which, in turn, caused Arthur to jolt a little with the surprise of her surprise.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Sir, I-I was just trying to leave something for you," she gasped, hurriedly standing upright and smoothing down he skirt, unable to make eye contact as, even in the dimly lit space, Arthur could see her face burning.

"No, no I'm sorry, that was very rude of me, I shouldn't be sneaking up on you like that," Arthur insisted he was at fault, also glancing about awkwardly.

Twirling a soft lock of hair between her girlish fingers, Erika flashed a timid smile and seemed about to back away before remembering she still possessed what she had meant to leave. She held the envelope out to him, still with the same shy but warm smile.

"I didn't know when you would be back, but I got you this," she waited for him to accept the offering, glancing between the face of her elder and the white square of paper as though she was afraid he wouldn't take it.

Blank confoundment settled briefly on the face of the other as he looked at what he was being gifted. Clearly not a work document, he was puzzled but forcefully smoothed out the frown he could feel forming upon his brow, not wanting to upset his colleague.

"Thank you," he replied almost as a question, taking the envelope.

Unsure of whether he was expected to open it in front of her, Arthur was relieved when Erika chirped a sweet, "You're welcome," and scampered past him out to the main office.

Left alone in the grey tube of the hall, he looked down at what he had obtained, his name written in curly, conjoined letters with an X for a kiss beside it.

Tucking the gift under his arm as he unlocked the door one-handedly and with some difficulty, Arthur let his briefcase slip from his shoulder to the floor beside his chair and took a seat at his desk, ignoring the inhumane number of documents sat waiting for him there. He studied the square of paper a moment longer, ran a roughened finger along the top, then broke the seal of the flap to reveal its contents.

Greeted by the smiling, yellow face of a cartoonish sunflower, Arthur slid the card from inside to read the message printed across the top in rainbow coordinated lettering. 'Get Well Soon' the anthropomorphised plant wished him, its curved black line of a mouth smiling at him, disproportionate eyes staring inanimately into him.

They stared at one another, the picture almost challenging him to reciprocate the expression of joy it held but Arthur could do no such thing. Not that he didn't appreciate the gesture, in fact for the shortest second, he felt the brush of emotion clogging his throat, touched by the inherent compassion of the act.

Running his thumb over the laminated surface of the novelty card as he held it, he didn't care that it was obviously a cheap make, the fact even making the purchase even more meaningful. The girl was only an intern after all, payed minimum wage or possibly less, if the finance department had a good legal team, and knowing she had spent what little she had to spare on someone who barely said two words to her per day simply because she wanted to made Arthur fear he may burst into flames if he touched something so utterly pure.

He flipped over the front to see the message contained within, open mouthed as he tried to fathom how someone could be so ridiculously nice. Inside, her penmanship urged him a swift recovery from whatever presumed, physical illness she must have thought he was suffering from, another little coded kiss beside her name at the bottom. Reading the words and reading them again, he turned the cover over to look at the front of the card then opened it up to go over the words once more.

Amidst his castle of paperwork, he propped the card up beside his computer screen, the one splash of colour in the room, and let slip a long but light exhale. Although he still didn't smile, he sat a little taller, held his head up a little easier as he turned on his screen and prepared for the day as he supposed if kindness could be found in a place as soulless as the corporate office then the rest of the world couldn't be so bad.

While his view on life at large may have been more optimistic than usual, it didn't solve the situation Arthur currently found himself in as he tried and failed to make a dent in the pileup left for him by his past self. For hours, he slogged through the stacks of work that walled him into his desk, quite literally stood between him and his way out as he was barely tall enough to peak over the top of the paper mountain range.

Although his hand still ached, the monotony of the work had numbed him to the point he had simply been able to ignore it, yet still it had been slow going. Now, with seemingly no difference made and a sharp pain flaring in his knuckles, all he could do was lean back in his creaking chair, his bones making the same sound, and accept he had done all that he was capable of.

Slipping on his jacket, he left the office with the whimsical hope that the elves from those old folk tales he remembered being told as a child might come and lend a hand in the night. Whatever the moral of that particular story was meant to be though, he didn't remember but he was fairly certain it didn't apply to his predicament, and so expected no such miracle to happen.

Out into the darkened hallway, through the window the still clear but impermeably black confronted him. There was something so much more invasive about the sky at night when not half covered by clouds, like the universe was staring directly down upon him. The stars themselves, although masked by light pollution, scrutinizing his little life.

The Friday commute home with the dreaded weekend crowd, while congested and slightly more chaotic than he might have liked, was something Arthur really didn't mind as much as other people seemed to. It was fascinating to him. Shoved into a contained space with so many people, one hundred separate lives intertwining at this one convergent point for a few minutes, it was like a grand renaissance painting commissioned just for him. He couldn't help but feel a certain voyeuristic enjoyment.

Along the row of backseats sat a pack of girls. That's what they always seemed to travel in; packs. Like wolves. Clad in the minimum amount of clothing acceptable, faces painted and hair pinned up, chattering between themselves with the occasional, lip-biting glance to the group of boys that stood by the doors. Young and in love with their youth, they lived in the headspace of only what could be with no regrets to speak of.

Stood around him, was an image of their future. Women, middle aged, six or seven of them, their menopausal bodies crammed into outdated clothing as they teetered on heels that exposed the calloused skin of their feet, red and blistered from the impractical footwear. Clinging to the yellow bars, they cackled, a nasal squawking sound, bent over at the waist from the sheer force of their own amusement.

Quite clearly attempting to recapture their own younger days, Arthur could have pitied them had they not been succeeding. Eyes alight with juvenile enjoyment, they giggled like schoolgirls, the crow's feet that stretched across their temples showing that the years hadn't dampened their sense of vivacity.

He envied them a little, jealousy making their happiness grating to the ear and he cast his glance elsewhere, to the man beside him. Seemingly a few years older than him, if the obviously receding hairline was anything to go by, he sat, leg twitching, eyes fixed on his phone screen. Too far away for Arthur to read the words, the bouquet of pink blossoms that lay in the man's lap explained the situation. Glancing swiftly away so as not to be caught staring when the man lifted his nervous gaze only for it to drop back to his phone screen, Arthur noted he was only one street from his stop.

Silently wishing his fellow commuter the best of luck, he pressed the bell and slid his way past the bodies blocking the door to stumble out into the cold. The doors slid closed the second he was past them, sealing him out of the scene. Watching as the vespertine performance trundled away into the night, he began to trail after it then turned the corner, speeding the length of the tree lined pavement.

Dimmed, orange light shone through the material of drawn curtains both sides of him, fairy lights strung around the frames of some. Not too many people had bothered to decorate the exteriors of their houses, but Arthur had caught glimpses of festive living rooms on his way out that morning. Synthetic trees propped up by windows, oversized stockings hung from mantlepieces, tinsel adorning every available space. Francis had been right, they did look awfully miserable by comparison.

The sight of his own, drab front door was still a welcome one, however, and he was through it with a shuddering breath of relief with no hesitation, warmth seeping through his skin. Swinging the door closed behind him without looking back, Arthur let his bag slip from his shoulder to the floor with a heavy thud and called to the man he new to be home already.

Footsteps strained the floorboards above him, a little faster than a regular walking pace, as he slid off his jacket and drifted over to the kitchen.

"Wait, do not move, let me see," Francis trilled, thumping his way down the stairs.

"What?" Arthur frowned, confusedly, and looked to the archway where his partner entered.

Eager smile subtly changing to one of approval, the older man nodded as he regarded his lover's new style with an impressed quirk of the brow.

"Très bon, it is different, I like it," he admired.

"Oh, right," Arthur realised what was being referred to, subconsciously running a hand through his newly cropped locks, "it's a little shorter than I would have liked but that's sort of my own fault, so this will have to do, I suppose," he rambled, still not quite adjusted to the minor change.

Tutting, Francis furrowed his brow in disagreement, swaying closer. "Not at all, it is very fitting. You look very," he paused as he thought of the right word, simpering softly as it came to mind, "mature."

"I'm twenty-four, Francis," Arthur rebuffed the slightly patronising compliment.

"You know what I mean," the other waved a hand, unable to phrase his thoughts any other way. He reached out a hand to brush his fingers through the golden threads of hair. "It is nice to actually see your face again," he joked, able to see his lovers' features properly for the first time in months, keeping his concern over how prominent the framework of bone beneath the pallor of his skin was to himself for the time being.

"Thank you," the younger man accepted, lips tilting upward a little as the hand in his hair trailed down the back of his head and cupped the nape of his neck, a set of warmed sapphires gazing into him all the while, "I just need to get used to it."

His subtle smile returned to him tenfold by thin, velvety lips, Francis leaned in to peck his uncovered forehead and brush past him on his way into the kitchen, dealing him a cheeky slap on the backside on his way. Turning to scowl half-heartedly at the assault, Arthur found the other was preoccupied as he rummaged through his work bag in search of something, vocalising a little 'ah' as he found a camera and beckoned the younger man to come over.

"Did you happen to catch the sunset today?" he prefaced as he clicked through his stored photos to find what he was looking for.

Arthur shook his head, recalling quite miserably how he had been locked away in his tomb of an office until long after the light had completely faded.

The camera screen was shown to him and he squinted a little to better see the stunning exhibit of natural wonder being shown to him.

"Quite something, non?" the self-proclaimed connoisseur of beauty looked also in soft awe at the photo, "I simply had to capture the moment."

A sky streaked in a rainbow of pastel in deepening hues of violet and rose showed the graceful wilting of the day and the slow saturation of the clear night that Arthur had walked through not twenty minutes ago. Clouds of dove feathers tinged in soot streaked across it, defined yet impossibly soft looking and contrast against them were two black v shapes of birds in flight.

"It's beautiful," Arthur complimented, rather jealous that he was only getting to see such a sight through a screen.

"Merci, I think I might get it printed," the other contemplated, "It may look nice in the bathroom."

Nodding along, Arthur went about setting the table as there was something cooking in the oven.

"How does your hand feel?" Francis spoke up after a while, casting a concerned glance at the smaller man's bandaged hand.

"It's fine," Arthur quickly brushed off, avoiding the exasperated look he knew he was being sent.

"Let me see, please," the older man demanded as though speaking to a troublesome child, arms folded.

Relenting to the scornful tone, Arthur reluctantly undid the bandages that covered the nasty results of the previous days outburst. He held up the mutilated appendage, still unable to fully unfurl his little and ring fingers.

With a tut of empathy, Francis came closer and held it in his own palm, touch more tender than should be humanly possible.

"Are you sure it does not feel broken?" he checked yet again.

"Yes, I'm certain," Arthur verified, supressing a wince of pain as his hand was examined.

Unconvinced, Francis expelled a faint hum of consideration. "The cuts have healed, at least," he muttered.

Looking down at the scabbed over lacerations they didn't seem nearly as dramatic as they had done the day before. He had felt them open up once or twice during the day, but they weren't deep enough to worry over.

About to take his hand back, he noted a plaster on one of Francis' fingers and tilted his head to the side.

"What did you do?" he drew attention to it and Francis looked at it himself, letting his hand go.

"Just a little cut," he dismissed, "Some glass left in the bathroom."

Guilt instantly springing to life in Arthur's gut at this, it must have shown on his face as his lover reassured him.

"Do not pout, mon ange, it was just me being clumsy," he comforted.

Knowing that he was in any way connected to some sort of harm that had befallen his partner was enough for Arthur to feel he should be condemned, however, and his sense of accountability left him uneasy. Eyes flitting up briefly to meet the ever-forgiving ones that looked at him as though he could do nothing wrong, Arthur took his lover's hand and brought it to his face, planting an affectionate kiss upon it, allowing his lips to linger before releasing it.

As the delicate fingers slipped past his own Arthur felt them shake a little with the sprinkling of endeared laughter that trickled from the other.

"Mon Prince Charmant," he swooned, causing the mouth of his fretful lover to curve.

Bending at the waist to offer a mischievous bow, Arthur watched in amusement as his partner hid a smirk behind his hand and turned away, the beginnings of a blush dusting his cheeks as he said something about the potatoes burning.

* * *

A sigh the first thing to leave his mouth the next morning, Arthur reached out to fumble for his alarm and silenced it, relishing in the peace of the dreary, early quiet of the day a moment before pushing himself up. Yawning into his arm, long and hard enough to make his eyes water, he scratched the back of his head, the prickly texture of his hair odd but pleasing to touch. Reluctantly peeling his eyelids apart fully, the room remained as though they were closed, near pitch black as the sun didn't even think of making an appearance before eight in the depths of winter that Arthur currently found himself at the mercy of.

Exposing his legs to the frosty bite of the room, he swung them over the side of the mattress, remaining slumped there as he gathered himself. As the motivation needed to rise from the comfort of his bed slowly gathered, however, the voice of the man still huddled beneath the covers spoke to him.

"Amour, what are you doing?" the sleep laced words broke the silence, sounding a little sad for some reason.

Another heavy breath deflating him, Arthur could just about keep his eyes open, lack of movement causing him to drift off while sitting up.

"I have to get up," he slurred, "work."

The shifting of linen and a soft exhale came from behind, followed by the heated touch of slightly sweaty fingertips gently brushing over the small of his back.

"Must you?"

A low groan came from his throat, his body resisting his mind, reacting to the tender touch.

"I have so much to do," he almost sobbed, head hanging a little lower at the thought.

Again, the sounds of movement, the bed dipping as his lover slid closer. Francis propped his drowsy head up on his hand as he lay close, resting his palm on the prominent arch of the other's hip.

"It will still be there on Monday," Francis pointed out, "You said we could get the tree this weekend."

"Tomorrow," Arthur tried to mentally repel the enticing contact but could feel his upper body sagging, falling further from his simple aim of getting up.

"You booked your appointment at the therapist's office for tomorrow," the other reminded him in his husky morning thrum, "We are getting the tree today so that Alfred can come with us, rappelles toi?"

While Arthur liked to think himself a reasonably organised individual, in reality he was probably the most scatter-brained of the family and he was grateful for Francis' administrative abilities.

He didn't reply, crumpling in on himself where he sat in a state of dormiveglia, as his partner whispered something unintelligible against his shoulder, sealing his lulled words in with a kiss. The hand on his hip curled further around his midriff as a second kiss was placed in the crease of his neck, another pecking his cheek and a chill ran down his spine as hot breath tickled his ear. Warmth pressed against the back of him as Francis sat up to capture his desire in an embrace and pull him back to the mattress.

Finding himself back where he had foolishly tried to escape from, Arthur melted into the hold of his lover, already dreaming by the time his head hit the pillow.

"Arthur," the chest he leaned into vibrated, both rousing and pulling him further into sleeps clutches, "I would like to make some ground rules for us both to follow."

He forced a vague grunt from his nose to show he was listening, nuzzling his face into the cushions.

"From now on no more working weekends, no more late nights and any paperwork that is brought past the front door will be burned," Francis laid out the new regime, a well-meant sternness to his words.

It wasn't a question and so Arthur didn't agree, simply accepting what he was being told.

"I'm going to get fired, one of these days, you know," he reflected on the thought, not sounding too upset.

"Good," Francis shared his apathy, "It makes you miserable."

Waking rather more abruptly some hours later, Arthur started from a nightmare he couldn't recall, springing bolt upright from his other half's grasp. A thin layer of moisture dampened his neck and his shirt clung to his back as he panted, heart pounding, from whatever imagined horror had been chasing him.

Placing a hand to his chest, the firm, bony feel of it reassuring him he was in the physical world where his dreamed fears couldn't follow, he breathed deeply and felt the fast decelerating pounding in his ribcage even out.

"What…what is it?" Francis' eyes cracked open as he blearily caught on to the world around him.

Calmed from his sudden start to the day, Arthur glanced back at the sleep stained face that slowly forced its way into the land of the living.

"It's nothing, don't worry, love," he assured, a slight smile coercing his lips as he made eye contact with the misty, blue gems that squinted up at him.

His gaze flitting from his partner to the clock on the bedside table, however, his smile fell as he saw the time and he made a sound of mild anguish.

"How did I let you talk me out of going to work? I have so much to catch up on," he sighed audibly.

"Calm down, cherie," the other murmured, rolling onto his front to rest on his elbows, "there are people in your office besides you, I am sure if it is so important they will make someone else do it."

Although he was obviously right, a somewhat irritated sound came from the younger man as he rolled his shoulders, not that he particularly cared about how much worse the pileup on his desk got. Whether the size of Ben Nevis or Everest, a mountain was a mountain and he would have to climb it eventually.

While the sun had made its reluctant ascent, it was still a way off noon, and Arthur wished to capitalize on this. He laid back against the pillows staring at the ceiling a while but found that whatever had startled him awake had unsettled his mind enough that he couldn't return to that restful place and so started his day.

Leaving Francis to enjoy his hazy state of weekend dozing, he got up, showered and threw on some clothes then made himself some tea to bring back upstairs with him, leaving a coffee for his sleeping counterpart on the bedside table. The book on his own nightstand that he had failed to start seemed an inviting task and a good way to kick start his brain and so he curled himself into a loose ball and leaned against the headboard to breeze through the first chapter, pausing to take the occasional sip of tea.

It wasn't long before the scent of a rich, fresh brew caused the other man to stir. With a satisfied breath flowing from his nostrils, he stretched and took a few mouthfuls from the still warm mug then rolled to face his partner who remained absorbed in the printed medium.

He gazed placidly up at the pale face, eyes aglow as the days first light hit them directly, lighting the iris alive as though a candle were burning softly behind its surface. Flecks of chartreuse interlaced with the abyssal, sea toned strands on a background of sprawling meadow, locked in place with a limbal wreath of dark ivy.

When illuminated, the dusting of freckles over his nose was visible, a few speckled high on his cheeks too. Francis internally smiled as they reminded him of the summer, the only time they were on full show, and the lazy six weeks of doing nothing they had spent stumbling through the first stages of adolescent love all those years ago.

The man observed glanced down, knowing he was being watched, admired rather, through the rose-coloured glasses that perpetually balanced upon his lover's nose. It could be tiresome at times, how he went about things with the airy nonchalance of a romance fanatic, but Arthur never truly minded. He knew he needed someone to inject a little positivity into his life and he supposed the world did look more welcoming through the hue of pink.

Corners of his lips quirking upward as he glanced down at the infatuated face, the expression was returned and a tangled, yellow head was placed just below his chest, the fragrant scent of unwashed hair drifting past his nostrils. He continued his activity quite happily in tranquil, shared silence, head perched sweetly on him as Francis half read along with his partner, vaguely interested but more than contented to sit and listen to the relaxed heart beat that thudded softly against his ear.

"So, how are we planning on getting a tree home, then?" Arthur broke the idyllic serenity after a while to enquire, since, amongst the four of them, they didn't own any mode of transportation.

Francis already had a solution to the problem, however. "I asked Toni if we could borrow his car," he revealed, "We can pick it up on our way over."

"Oh, that's good of him," the younger man commended mildly, "When?"

"Whenever," was the ambiguous answer.

Checking the time, Arthur bent the tip of the page he was on and closed the book, placing it on the side.

"Should we go then?" he suggested, "No point in waiting."

"Someone is eager today," Francis noted his partner's unusual motivation as his human pillow slid from the bed with some added vigour.

"We can wait a while if you'd like, but it's almost midday already," Arthur mentioned, his back to the expression of lenity directed at him.

"Not at all, we should make the most of the day," the older man agreed, happy to encourage the sudden burst of inspiration that seemed to have taken over the other.

Despite their intentions it was another hour before they made their way out the front door, Arthur forewarning his brothers of their arrival while Francis got ready. Detouring briefly to pick up Antonio's car, it was another half hour before they knocked on the door of the apartment, but Arthur found that he didn't mind the lengthy way in which the day was unfolding.

An odd sort of energy, a need to be productive, coursed through him, yet it wasn't nervous or uncontrollable. Perhaps excitement, maybe what people would describe as vitality. Whatever it may have been, he was keen to harness its power.

It was Alfred who answered them, Arthur's own sense of exuberance mirrored back from the younger man's pearly grin.

"Hey, how you guys doing?" he greeted, stepping aside to let them through, "you're just in time to help me with something."

"And by that you mean you waited until we arrived to start whatever it is you want help with," Arthur deadpanned, knowing his brother's ploys.

"No," the other retorted but quickly gave up on the lie, "Well, kind of, but I couldn't do it without some help. I just need-, hey, what's wrong with your hand?" frowning, he cut himself off as his sibling's bruised hand caught his attention.

"Oh, that? I just fell," Arthur excused a little awkwardly, shrugging to feign insouciance as he slid his hands into his pockets.

Unconvinced, Alfred hitched and eyebrow. "Did you punch the ground on your way down?" he sarcastically called bullshit.

"What do you need help with?" the scrutinized man changed the subject firmly with a look to say it was not up for discussion.

The younger man looked as though he were about to question this but glanced away with a slight shake of his head.

"I need someone to hold a torch for me while I grab a suitcase out of the basement and Matt had to run to the library real quick," he requested.

"Oui, I will go," Francis volunteered himself.

"Alright, well, I left all the stuff I want to pack on my bed, you think you could start on that, Artie?" Alfred delegated.

While he felt compelled to roll his eyes at his laziness, Arthur had agreed to help him pack and so nodded.

"Thanks, man," Alfred showed his appreciation as he and Francis headed into the hallway on their way to retrieve the suitcase.

Left in the apartment by himself, Arthur went to his sibling's bedroom and this time did roll his eyes at the chaos that consumed it. A pile of clothes on the bed to rival the paperwork on his desk at work sat in a state of complete disarray, no perceivable system in which they were organised. By the looks of it, one would have though he was leaving for a year rather than a little under two weeks.

Starting from the top, he begun folding articles of clothing and setting them aside in piles for Alfred to pick and choose from as he needed. An abundance of colourful t-shirts, an embarrassing number of which were stained with drips of toothpaste, filled half the bed while the pile gradually decreased in size.

It wasn't long before the sound of the door opening with some force alerted him that the others were back from their mission. Glancing up to see Alfred dragging the oversized case through the door, he noticed he was alone and furrowed his brow lightly.

"What have you done with Francis?" he asked the whereabouts of his partner.

"Mattie said he was finishing up at the library, so he said he'd go get him," Alfred filled him in, "he's going to swing round to pick us up after."

Letting the case fall on its side, he unzipped it and started throwing in the piles that Arthur had made.

"Alfred, at least sort through it a bit rather than packing your entire wardrobe," Arthur gently disparaged.

"Can't," he rebuffed, tossing in as much as he could, "I don't have time."

"But you don't leave for another week," the elder of the two tried to reason.

"I got a lot to fit in before then. All my essays are due in before the new year and coach has us doing triple practice to get us ready," the dedicated athlete listed out his, admittedly hectic, schedule, taking a wad of mismatched socks from a draw and cramming them in, "I probably won't even have time to see you guys again before the day I go."

He glanced over just in time to catch the look of disappointment gloss over the other's face, his eyes dropping as he hesitated over the pair of shorts he folded.

"I mean, I wish I did, but I'm just so busy," he added sincerely, guilt tweaking his heartstrings.

"Of course, you are," that slipped expression was cleared before Arthur responded, "No one expects you to reorganise your life around us."

He added a forced yet understanding smile to show he wasn't offended but a hint of disheartenment still resided behind his expressive eyes as he focused back on his task.

The optimistic expression wasn't returned, though, as Alfred latched on to what was behind it. Watching as it stuck there, lingering behind the surface whilst his brother was distracted, he took a breath before asking.

"You're not upset, are you?" he ventured directly, "You're not mad at me, right?"

Apprehension evident in the uncharacteristic tightness of his lips, Arthur refuted his questions.

"No, Al," he gently affirmed.

"Sure?" Alfred persisted, his servile nature making him paranoid.

Arthur couldn't help but be somewhat melted as he saw the innocent look of worry resting unmasked on the other's face and sighed lightly before he responded.

"I don't like that you'll be gone for Christmas," he admitted, "but I understand that you don't have any control over when you have to go so, yes, I'm sure."

As though still not totally convinced, Alfred nodded slowly, shifting his concerned gaze to the half-filled suitcase. Taking stock of the contents, he suddenly remembered something and walked over to his bedside table.

"Ah, shoot, where'd I put it," he thought aloud, pulling open the single draw and closing it again when whatever he was looking for wasn't inside.

"What is it?" Arthur queried, mimicking the confused demeanour of his brother as he was ignored.

Turning his attention to the bed, Alfred began shifting clothes to find what he must have buried beneath the pile in his haste, brow loosening with relief a few moments later.

"Jeez, I scared myself for a second there," he let out a breathy laugh as he pulled out a small, silver picture frame, inside of which resided a familiar picture.

"Is that mum?" Arthur felt his forehead wrinkle, not in confusion but something akin, as Alfred tucked the picture into one of the side pockets of the suitcase.

"Course, can't leave her behind," the younger man zipped the woman's benevolent face safely inside, smiling through the glass as though she were excited to be accompanying him.

Something in his chest softening as the woman's face was closed away, Arthur wished that he too could crawl behind that frame and follow his brother across the Atlantic. He longed for his presence to be there with him in the same manner as a picture; inanimate but with eyes that still saw. He imagined himself, propped up on some mantelpiece, a static observer, unable to affect events but still there in some form.

"I worry about you," he heard himself say in a wistfully lamented tone, "I worry that you'll leave…for good."

He focused on the suitcase as though it were the thing compelling him to leave or perhaps as though speaking to the woman trapped inside it.

"I know you do," it seemed almost to pain Alfred to say as he too cast his eyes to the case, packed and sealed and ready to go. Raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck, the sound of air passing through his nose flowed heavily from him, his toned chest rising and falling. "American football, well, it's kind of only a thing in America and…it's what I want to do," he carried on, the words sounding premeditated, "but even if that's where I end up staying it's not like I'll forget about you guys."

Chewing at the inside of his lip, the older man nodded, believing him. No doubt should Alfred choose to live on the other side of the world there would be more than one picture frame on his mantle.

A faint buzzing came from the pocket of Alfred's jeans, cutting off the quiet moment quite perfectly as what needed to be said had been, and he checked the screen.

"They're pulling up downstairs," he referred to the missing members of the family who had arrived in the car park.

"Do you have everything you need?" the smaller man checked, still a small hill of clothing on the bed.

"Anything I don't have I'll just buy when I'm there," Alfred shrugged flippantly, shoving the case under the bed. "Oh, and Arthur?" his questioning intonation caught the addressee's attention and he looked over expectantly, "Shotgun."

Teeth bared in an insufferable grin that had Arthur's eyes rolling back in his skull while a scoffed laugh passed his lips, the less mature of the two bounded from the room, his heavy footsteps pounding the hallway. Shaking his head with affectionate exasperation, Arthur followed him out and reached the car park where the others waited.

He slid into the back seat of the trash can with wheels alongside a pouting American who vehemently expressed his displeasure.

"Matthew is refusing to honour the shotgun system," he indirectly accused his brother of the heinous crime, receiving an unimpressed look shot at him via the rear-view mirror.

"I was already in the car, Al, I'm not getting out to switch seats with you," the younger twin told him tiredly, "Besides, I have the directions."

"Where are we going?" the eldest of the siblings asked, the plans having been made without his input.

"Oh, sorry, hi Arthur," Matthew turned around in his seat to properly acknowledge the other with a smile, "I found this Christmas market about forty minutes away. They have trees and traditional European ornaments and stuff."

"Sounds nice," Arthur approved as they pulled away, his unusually elevated mood causing a tingling sensation to pool low in his ribcage.

Fire scorched the clouds above, a shadow cast upon them by the lowering sun that licked at their cottony edges and flared through the gaps like the lighthouse of the angels. A thin smattering of rain dampened the windscreen, just enough that Francis had to switch on the squeaking windscreen wipers that were so old they only served to leave streaks of muck across the glass.

The tinny sound of the radio played an exclusively Christmas related channel, covers of covers of cover songs one after another, 'to get them in the mood' Francis claimed. Arthur didn't mind so much, however, focusing more on the view from the window as the thick city turned to fields then dotted woodlands.

Emerging from a cluster of birch trees, the land around them opened up into farm fields and Matthew gave the order to turn down a hedge rowed lane where a sign for the market directed them the rest of the way. They parked in a half empty patch of bare earth and exited the vehicle into the now fully dark evening. More hand painted signs showed them the way down a path then through a metal farm gate and, for a moment, Arthur feared his optimism had been misplaced but quickly found himself reassured as they came to the entrance.

Above them an archway looped in holly and clusters of red berries market the gateway to a fairy-tale and before them spread a makeshift medieval looking fairground.

"Damn," Alfred marvelled at the sight, stepping forward through the arch, the rest of the family following suit.

"Oui, c'est beau," Francis chimed in to sing his praises, the group stood gazing about themselves, surely looking rather comical in their state of reverence.

"This is quite the find, Matt," Arthur credited the younger man whose eyes, already glowing with the spirit of the season, creased at the edges from the appreciation.

"Thanks," his voice came muffled through the scarf that was pulled up to his nose, "You know, I think there's even a-"

"Woah, hang on, dude, hold that thought," the louder twin cut him off, eyes wide behind their lenses as he sniffed the air then squinting in thought. "Doughnuts," he identified the scent that the gentle breeze carried through, "Over this way, come on."

Following his nose, he turned towards the intoxicating aroma and began tracking down his prey.

"Al, wait!" the twin left behind called after him as best he could but found himself ignored and so turned to his former guardians with a tiresome expression, "We'll meet you in a little while to help you guys with the tree then, I guess."

"That is fine, I would like to have a look around," Francis concurred, "I will text you."

Matthew nodded in agreement as he turned to chase after his brother and the oldest two were left as a couple.

"He has the nose of a bloodhound," the Frenchman commented amusedly as he watched the back of his blond head disappear around a corner.

"And the attention span of one," Arthur added.

A chuckle sounded from the older man and they began ambling their way down one of the rows of stalls together. Little huts, like miniscule cottages, were set out in neat lines all throughout the area walled in by bushes, home made decorations and banners trimming the rooves, fairy lights coiled around the trees and the wooden framework. Everything seemed to glitter in the faint radiance and through it the finest powdering of rain filtered down, like icing sugar, and one could almost fool themselves into thinking it were snow.

Side by side, the lover's walked close, knuckles brushing together occasionally, connected by the same ethereal mindscape. They perused as they went, slowing by stalls of interest to run a hand gently over something that looked pleasing to touch or to savour the plethora of heavenly fragrances. The zest of citrus and cloves, the throat tingling spice of cinnamon and ginger, the musty sweetness of roasted nuts and all throughout the underlying crispness of a thousand pine trees.

Whilst passing one such confectionary stand, Francis stopped in his tracks with a gasp.

"Mon deiu, en papillote!" he exclaimed, thrilled by the sight of the traditional French treats, "I have not had these since I left my parent's house."

"Get some then," Arthur spurred him on, tickled by the childish look of glee on his partner's face.

Francis nodded eagerly and caught the attention of the proprietor who, picking up on his accent, struck up a conversation in rapid fire French. Stood to the side, Arthur tried to follow but, despite being fluent in the language, found he couldn't keep up with their excitable tongues and so turned his attention elsewhere.

All along the walls of the shack beside them hand crafted tree decorations of glass and crystal glistened on shelves. Transfixed by their dainty twinkling, Arthur walked over to see in greater detail, the exquisite shapes crafted so perfectly that he couldn't fathom the skill needed. Anatomy accurate robins and doves, a mouse sat on its hind legs with a little, red Santa hat and prancing reindeer with twisting antlers, but the thing that held his interest he thought lovelier than all of these combined.

Transparent as a ghost, a rose of glass reflected the light with petals so realistic he expected them to be soft against his skin. Arthur found himself afraid to touch it but couldn't help himself, picking up the crystallized bloom in the palm of his hand, as his mother had taught him to do with real flowers. His breath condensed on touching the chilled surface like morning dew and, without thinking, he took the ornament up to the counter, paying the somewhat extortionate price that he deemed completely worth it.

As he stepped away from the stall with his purchase, Francis approached with a bag of his own.

"What did you buy?" he questioned through a mouthful of something.

"I'll show you when we get home," Arthur couldn't be bothered to undo the wrapping that protected the fragile trinket and was too scared of dropping it should he take it out, "What are you eating?"

Offering him the open bag, Francis swallowed his mouthful to speak this time. "I got some dried fruit too," he explained.

The smaller man shook his head to decline, never having liked the bitterness that came with candied fruits, and Francis drew the bag back to himself to take another, a smirk stretching across his cheeks as he took something out.

"Arthur," his voice took on a jesting intonation as he raised an eyebrow, "Will you date me?"

Confused gaze shifting from the self-amused grin that split his partner's face to the dried date in his hand, Arthur fought to keep a straight expression.

"You disgust me," he deadpanned as the other laughted at his own pun, only to join him with a snorted chuckle a second later.

Once their amusement had abated Francis popped the sweet into his mouth and the two began to walk on, Arthur entwining their fingers as their hands bumped into each other's. Glancing over at the unexpected contact, the older man slowed to a stop again, the chaste endearment not enough, and pulled the other back to kiss him deeply in the cold of the night and the heat of the moment.

Eyes left open with the suddenness of it, Arthur saw the light crease of his other half's brow, the way his eyelids pressed together a little tighter than normal, both indicators of a heartfelt passion only expressible through action, one that had to be reciprocated. His own lids slipping closed, he tilted his head to the side so as their lips locked together, moving with a synchronicity acquired through years of practice. A hand found a place to rest on his back just as his found a home tangled in the wavy locks of gold that swayed in the wintery breeze.

While ardent, the display was brief, and they parted, faces kept close, to exchange coy smiles. Their breath, visible in the cold, mingled in the short space between them like a shared wedding veil and settled moist on their pink cheeks.

"Get a room," an American accent tore through the moment and both men's eyes darted away with reticent delight.

"I apologise, cherie, I thought I saw mistletoe," Francis lied as they released one another.

"Oh, in that case," Alfred joked, leaning towards his twin with pouted lips.

"Get off me," Matthew shoved him away as the others gave subdued snickers, "Here, we got you guys some mulled wine."

The quieter teen handed his elders a steaming cup each as he sipped his own hot chocolate, Alfred steadily consuming his way through a bag of miniature pastries. Regrouped, they headed towards the back of the fair where the tree lot was, the cool, woodland smell growing stronger the closer they got.

Walking through a secondary gate, I was as though they entered an undersized forest, cropped trees standing as tall as they could reach from their rootless bases around them. Their prickled branches snagged on the trailing hem of Arthur's coat, like they clung to him so that they might be chosen, as they considered their choices. While Arthur would have been happy to take the first one small enough to fit in the car, Francis took his time contemplating the apparently difficult decision, studying each tree like it was going to be the subject of his next picture and pointing out something he didn't approve of before moving on to the next one.

"I have never had a real tree before, I want it to be perfect," Francis insisted.

"How about this one?" Alfred suggested from the other end of the tree lot, pointing to a towering pine, its branches thick and heavy.

"That won't fit in the house, Alfred, let alone the car," Arthur demurred.

"We could trim the top," the younger man persisted, "I mean, bigger is better, right?"

Shaking his head as he let out a misty sigh at his brother's distressingly American attitude, Arthur let Francis find his ideal tree while he kept his overzealous sibling under control.

After some time, the choice was made, a humble little shrub that would fit quite nicely into the corner of the living room, and the salesman wrapped it and even helped to lug it to their car with them. After making sure to thank the man profusely and leave him a tip for his efforts, the four of them, with some struggling, managed to lash the tree to the roof of the car and were back home before it was too late to decorate it that same night.

Again, taking more pains to do so than was expected, the younger and stronger two of the family were able to wrestle the sapling into the living room where they propped it up in the corner by the door. Francis brought Alfred upstairs to see if they could locate the decorations that were stashed away in the roof and Arthur and the remaining twin stayed to trim some of the unrulier branches into alignment.

"Would you get that one up there for me?" Arthur requested, unable to reach the protruding stick with his rusty sheers, pointing to it with his injured hand.

"Arthur, what happened?" Matthew's soft tone grew even more sympathetic, eyebrows tugged into an troubled frown.

Drawing his arm back to himself, the older man began making excuses again. "It's nothing, Matt, please don't worry about it," he hurried quietly, those bespectacled, purplish eyes boring into the side of his head with the full force of his brotherly concern.

He always felt a certain sickness when lying Matthew as he knew that the younger man knew he was lying and would worry about him however much he insisted it was unnecessary. The silence that ensued was one that Arthur was unable to keep his mouth shut to, though, and began to fill with words he hadn't thought through before they tumbled free of his lips.

"I, uh, did want to tell you, though," he stuttered, facing towards the tree so as not to make eye contact, "That friend of yours, the one whose number you gave me," he was incapable of calling the man by his profession, "I'm going to see him tomorrow."

Although he didn't look to see, Arthur could sense the smile that grew on his youngest brother's face.

"Really?" the other sounded surprised but in a good way, like his expectations had been exceeded.

"Yes, well, you're the one who suggested it, so I just thought I should tell you," Arthur awkwardly mumbled on, embarrassment evident.

"No, that's, that's great, Art," Matthew encouraged, beaming, "Really, I'm so happy you're willing to try it. Thank you for listening to my advice."

Still, a lump in Arthur's throat prevailed, self-conscious over being the centre of attention even if it was for something he was being praised for. Glancing to his side, it grew worse at the sight of the optimism that brightened the other's face and he pulled a strained smile in response and was relieved when he said nothing more.

The other two returned just as they finished clipping the last branches down and they set to placing the ornaments onto the tree, Matthew and Arthur dotting their favourite pieces around the place, Francis adjusting the composition to fit his own artistic vision and Alfred haphazardly flinging the brightest, most glittery decorations wherever he could in a frenzy of yuletide exuberance. A little tinsel hung along the window sill, the angel passed down from some Great aunt to top the tree and their grotto was complete.

Standing back to admire their work, Francis turned off the main light so that they could admire the string of faulty fairy lights that spiralled around the truck and the way it reflected off the baubles.

"Ah shit is that the time?" Alfred swore as he caught sight of the clock across the hall, "We got to head out."

It was later than any of them had thought it to be and the group nodded, moving towards the door.

"Thank you for all your help, boys. It is good to know we can rely on you in our old age," Francis exaggerated, the younger men chuckling.

"No problem, gramps," Alfred jested in return, zipping up his coat as he prepared to face the elements.

"And you'll call if you need help with anything else, won't you?" Arthur directed at him, mindful of the upcoming date.

"Sure I will, don't stress yourself over it, man," the easy-going boy waved of his concerns, "You guys take care."

He turned and opened the door, setting out into the night, the younger twin pausing before he followed to look back at their older sibling.

"Let me know how it goes tomorrow," he added a supportive quirk of his lips then left after the other, doing a little hopping step to catch up on the driveway.

They stood watching them go until they were around the corner out of sight then closed the door, Arthur locking it as Francis wandered back to the living room to gaze admiringly at the tree in all its shimmering glory. Coming to stand beside him in the archway, the smaller of the two did similarly, head cocked to the side.

"I'm glad you suggested getting a real one this year. It does add a certain something, doesn't it," he pondered.

A long, contented hum came from the man next to him, a hint of a satisfied smile plumping his cheeks. Stepping away from the doorframe he leant against, Francis retrieved a large, clear glass bowl from the kitchen and set it out on the coffee table, pouring his edible purchases into it for sharing, a last afterthought of a touch that added exponentially to the mood of the room.

"What did you buy, then?" he inquired after the object that Arthur had totally forgotten about.

"Oh, right," he was reminded and went to take it from the bag he had left on the sofa.

Carefully, he peeled back the tissue paper that protected his new prized possession and held it out for his other half to see.

"Exquis," he breathed, as in awe of the trinket as Arthur had been, "it is stunning."

He took it from his partner's hands to hold it up against the light and rotate it slowly how a jeweller would a diamond.

"I don't know why but it caught my attention," Arthur considered aloud as the other placed it on the mantel.

"You do have quite the eye for beautiful things," Francis teasingly referred to himself, laughing as his vanity garnered an eye roll.

Switching off the tree lights before they went up to bed, lest the house catch on fire, the pair found themselves worn out by a day of fulfilling activity and mirrored their morning as Arthur went back to his book, half whispering the words under his breath as the other lay rested against his warm shoulder until both caved in to their well earned exhaustion.

Attempting to continue where he had left off the next day as he sat in the waiting room after arriving early for his appointment, Arthur found it impossible to concentrate. As he stifled his twitching leg for the tenth time, he took a calming breath and fixated on the page rather than the clock his eyes seemed drawn to. Ten minutes until he would be called into that office and he felt every second of it.

Again, finding his attention had drifted despite his best efforts, he gave up on distracting himself and indulged in the anxiety. It was as though there were eels in his stomach, writhing around and slithering all over each other, and he had far too much energy to sit still. He felt certain there was someone watching him, that whoever he was about to go and tell his darkest secrets to was sat in a room watching him through a camera, working out his weaknesses, seeing how best to manipulate him. Why he would want to do this, Arthur didn't know, but that's what his feverishly whirring brain told him.

The space he currently found himself in didn't do much to ease his tension, reminding him too much of work. Same carpet, same curtains, same water cooler next to the same potted plant. It smelled new and looked it too, the furniture still plush with that scratchy quality and the coffee table had yet to acquire scuff marks.

Several doors led off from the waiting room, each with a shining, brass plaque that denoted the name of the rooms occupant and Arthur recognised the name he had come to see. The sense of frantic apprehension worsened as he realised he had no idea how to even start to think about how it was pronounced as it contained letters that weren't in the English language. Guessing the correct way to say it would definitely go badly so he would just have to avoid saying his name at all. That was sure to be wonderfully awkward.

Leg bouncing in place, he was glad he was the only one in the room. Every now and then he'd hear a muffled sneeze or shifting paper from one of the rooms, but all the doors remained firmly closed. He looked at the clock again and saw he had only two minutes left to wait. Perhaps he was meant to go and knock and thought about doing so but found himself rooted to his seat.

Regretting his decision to come more every second, he was tempted to leave, he still had a minute and a half in which to do so. Eyes darting to the door, he contemplated making a run for it, his legs tensing in anticipation, but forcibly relaxed them. He couldn't lie and tell Matthew that he had been when he asked, and he would be disappointed to hear he hadn't gone. And it was for his own good, he told himself. It was meant to help so he would try.

Then again, the day before he had felt fine. Motivated and sociable and he didn't think about throwing himself out of a window even once. Maybe whatever shadow had fallen over his life had lifted of its own accord and he didn't need the medication or the therapy or anything.

Pain sparked through his hand and he realised he was clenching his fists. Slowly uncurling his fingers, his bruise ached, still the shade of midnight blue that indicated it was less than a week old, and he rested his hand on his thigh.

He sighed harshly at the reminder of his decision. Of course, he needed this, he hated himself and he'd run out of other options.

"Mr. Kirkland?"

Head snapping up at the sound of his name, Arthur stared at the opened door with eyes that were probably too wide to look normal.

"Yes?" he replied.

The man in the doorway smiled, lilac eyes squinting at the corners with the genuineness of it.

"It's good to meet you," he stepped back and held out an arm to coax his patient through, "Please, come in and we can get started."

* * *

I don't care if it takes me another year to finish this story, I'm finishing it. I should be able to get back into a regular pattern of uploading but I'm not promising anything.

Please do leave reviews, your opinions are important to me (I crave approval) and follow if you want to stay up to date. Thanks.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn't as Arthur had expected, then again, he wasn't all that sure what he had been expecting. The room was warm, homely in most respects, of course designed that way to bring an air of familiarity into an alien situation. Walls of soft beige coordinated with the muted earth tones of the furniture, all brand new like the reception area. Bookcases lined the back wall, most of the shelves half filled with books and files with little trinkets decorating the empty spaces. Whether they were personal affects of the man the room belonged to or just an attempt to make it seem less like an office, he wasn't sure.

Glancing towards the other end of the room, where the dreary, grey light came through a single floor length window half covered by blinds, he was struck by the heavy, wooden desk there, rather unbefitting with the rest of the rooms relaxed aesthetic in its relative grandeur. He wouldn't have minded one like that in his own office if he was honest, as well as the leather chair that was tucked into it, giving the set a disturbingly Freudian vibe. So long as his practices weren't the same as his taste in design, he had nothing to worry about, Arthur thought to himself.

The sound of the latch clicking into place, sealing both men into the misplaced living room, drew him from his daydreaming and he looked back as he was spoken to.

"Please, sit wherever you like, I'll be right over," the other continued to smile in that purposefully non-threatening manner as he gestured at the choice of two sofas set up facing one another in the centre of the room.

However welcoming the man tried to be, Arthur found his throat tied in a knot of anxiety still and only nodded as he made his way over to the furthest of the sofas. He sat stiffly, the barely used cushion still firm enough that he bounced up a little, but then shuffled back in his seat and waited.

The other joined him a few seconds later with a notepad and pen which he rested in his lap as he sat directly across from his patient, a coffee table and a wall of emotional repression separating them.

"I have to say, it is good to finally meet you, Matthew would mention you all the time," he struck up conversation, starting with mutual interest to create an opening he could delve into further, Arthur noticed immediately. "All very complementary, I assure you," he followed up with a flattering joke.

So busy trying to read the interactions that he hadn't thought of a response, Arthur was caught speechless as the other left his sentence hanging. Eyes unblinking as he parted his lips, hoping something that made sense might tumble out, the silence hung a few beats longer before it was alleviated by further reassurance from across the low table.

"I want to remind you, though, that whatever you say stays between us," his gaze rested persistently upon his subject but lightly so.

"Y-yes, of course, thank you," Arthur managed to kick his brain into gear and fulfil his side of the exchange, offering a tight smile, "It's a pleasure to meet you too, um…"

He hoped that panic wasn't evident on his face as he found he had stumbled into a social snare trap. Unable to remember or pronounce the surname of the man he sat with he could feel heat prickling at the base of his neck, spreading up to his ears.

"Oh, I apologise," the other gave a breathy laugh of embarrassment, "I've been speaking like we know each other when we have never met. Please, call me Tino."

Relieved yet flustered by his brief slip up, Arthur crookedly returned Tino's expression as best he could.

"It's a pleasure," he gratified with a nod, unable to ease the nerves that strung taught across his chest like a corset.

Pleasantries out of the way, the sensation didn't loosen as Arthur knew what was to come would only get more uncomfortable, horrendously so. He remained rigid in his seat as the smaller man shifted his weight, crossing his legs over and resting his notepad on a corduroy clad thigh tilted at an angle so that Arthur wouldn't be able to see the analysis of himself. An effeminate hand jotted something down in the top right corner as two disquieted, jade balls directed themselves towards the sound of metal pen tip on paper before he begun his investigation.

"So," he began, pausing as he raised his eyeline once more, folding his hands neatly, "I couldn't help but notice your hand. What did you do to it?"

The abruptness of his question rendered Arthur mute as his mouth opened with no planned sentence to follow. Subconsciously covering his still prominent injury with his other hand as he drew them both back to himself, he glanced to the side where the afternoon sun stretched long across the sandy carpet.

He knew he shouldn't lie and pre-emptively felt bad for doing so but surely anyone could understand that he wasn't comfortable exposing his innards the first time meeting the man. Closing his mouth, he chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating how to word his thoughts without being too distruthful, hoping that Tino may jump in to rescue him from the conversational void.

The stillness remained, however, something about the room muffling out the sounds of the outside world. Not the thrum of traffic nor a swishing of bare branches detracted from the expectation that rested solely on Arthur, the entire universe seemingly waiting with bated breath for his voice.

"It was an accident," he saw the sentence leave his lips through an out of body experience.

A set of pale eyebrows quirked slightly, not quite sceptical but hinting at it. "An accident?" Tino repeated.

The fabric of his shirt stuck to his neck as Arthur fought against the blockade of his own perceived better knowledge.

Those violet eyes across from him watched, able to weed out the truth from the lies before they were even told. He knew Arthur would lie, or so Arthur thought as he cornered himself into an unspoken, one-person war of pre-emptive countermeasures.

"I punched something," he admitted, feeling rather like a child confessing to troublesome behaviour.

Unfazed, the other's head cocked to the side slightly. "What did you punch?" he asked.

"A mirror," Arthur wavered, his words trailing off, his face burning.

Again, the question that followed was a logical one.

"Why did you do that?"

All moisture sapped from his mouth, presumably evaporated by the unbearable heat of his cheeks, Arthur reiterated, his voice breaking.

"It was an accident…"

Another prolonged hush, over which the pounding of blood in his ears almost deafened him, growing louder with each beat as it dragged.

Eventually, Tino gave a subdued nod, clicking his pen and writing something down, the usually cringworthy scraping sound a blessing. Craning his neck slightly to try and see what was being transcribed about him, Arthur couldn't quite read the lopsided lettering which was soon covered by the folded hands of their author and he glanced up to see he was being studied again.

"How about we take a step back," Tino suggested, able to sense the stress of the last interrogation, "You mentioned on the phone that you were recently diagnosed with depression?"

Eye twitching at the way he phrased it, Arthur swallowed and gave a jerky nod.

"Yes," he affirmed.

"Perhaps we could talk a bit about that," the smaller man steered the discussion to its main purpose.

Apprehensive but with little agency in the situation, the other went along with it, bobbing his head again.

"Do you have any idea what may have brought this on?" Tino continued, "Anything that has been going on recently?"

"Nothing specific," Arthur was half honest as, although he could list a number of current events that had taken a strain he didn't know if any one thing was really to blame, if anything at all.

"Okay," the professional's tone was well practiced, trained in the art of patience, "So, you perhaps feel that life in general has become harder to manage?"

Afraid of having words put in his mouth despite their accuracy, Arthur rolled his lips in thought, pinching the dry skin between his front teeth.

"Not exactly," he hesitated, casting his eyes downward as he spoke, "I suppose…maybe work?"

The other shifted again, pen hovering over his notepad as he sensed he may be getting somewhere. He said nothing however and as Arthur raised his gaze, accidentally catching eyes with him, he urged him on with a subtly raised brow.

"It's, um…" he carried on, supressing the need to fidget, "Well, I've fallen behind, and I can't quite seem to catch up."

"Would you say you feel stressed?" Tino deduced the fairly obvious conclusion as he scribbled away.

"In a word," Arthur quietly conceded.

Humming to the tune of his pen as he recorded his observations, the lighter blond questioned, "What do you do, exactly."

"I just work in an office. The one on Mill Street," Arthur gave his tried and tested answer. He found it to be the perfect reply as, not only was it blunt enough to hint at his own boredom at the subject but unremarkable enough that others wouldn't wish to discuss it further.

"Doing what, may I ask?" his script was thrown off as his method failed.

"Uh," he fumbled, for a moment forgetting what he did, "I'm one of my floor's co-ordinators. I mostly, um, make spreadsheets though."

"Do you enjoy it?" Tino halted his pen briefly to enquire.

No, was the quickest and most accurate answer but Arthur instead stretched out a lacklustre, "It's better than nothing."

They went on in this way for a while; question, answer, evaluation, move on. While Tino wasn't forceful in his approach, something Arthur was thankful for, the quickfire pace of their discussion was exhaustive, especially since the overly suspicious patient was paranoid of some plot to trip him up the entire time.

Their allotted thirty-five minutes together didn't allow for too much deviation or depth in conversation, and the session drew to a close swiftly. Having focused so hard on the situation at hand Arthur had switched into a sort of fugue state, similar to the way he often would whilst sat at his desk and was only broken from it by the closing snap of a pen.

"My advice would be to prioritise and do what you feel you can manage. There's no point agonizing over something you don't like when there is nothing to gain from it, after all," Tino finished, flipping over the cover of his notebook to signify he had acquired enough data, "Do you have a second session booked?"

Arthur really hadn't thought in advance about any of it, unsure of whether he would even want to come again and shook his head in response.

"Then, if I may suggest something, it would be good if you could come in some time mid next week and then again at the weekend. I know it sounds like a lot, but I find it works well to start off with regular, short sessions so that you get used to the way this works and then we can move on to weekly, hour long sessions," the professional advised.

"Okay," Arthur consented despite remaining dubious, telling himself he could always cancel the appointment should he talk himself out of it before it came.

"Perfect," the other stood with a broad smile, "You can arrange it at the desk, I look forward to seeing you again."

"Yes, thank you," Arthur stood up half dazed, blinking hard when he became light headed, fuzzy, blue splotches dancing before his vision.

Tino walked to the door with him, offering one last firmly positive smile as he left the room then closed the door behind him. He had to wait a while out in the foyer for someone to come and help him but once the young man was behind the desk Arthur was able to, somewhat uncertainly, book for that coming Wednesday afternoon.

Hunching his shoulders as he exited into the unmerciful dark of the early winter evening, Arthur turned his back to the last stretch of daylight that bleached the sky and walked in that direction. He knew a route home that was faster than the bus ride he had taken on his way there and so he resolved to stroll home, thinking the air might help to clear his overworked mind.

The roads were empty, curtains in front rooms drawn with a warm glow behind them and fairy lights strung along window sills, flickering. Veering left he opted to follow the slightly more populated but still sparse promenade, the short row of shops along it having pulled down their shutters an hour ago, and sped up in his pace, the cold beginning to get to him.

Although he knew the high street area it wasn't a place he had been to recently, mostly because the task of shopping bored him to tears and, since Francis quite enjoyed the chore, it was something Arthur would leave to his other half. It was a place he remembered from those hazy days of childhood as it was his mother's favourite place for Sunday excursions and it hadn't seemed to have changed a modicum since.

The dingy, old haberdashery with its water stained sign, the Y still resting at hazardous angle, was the first in the procession and had always been his least favourite thanks to its owner. A man, most likely no older than sixty at the time, but so wrinkled that Arthur was sure he had no bones and was just a pile of loose skin. As a child that knew no better, he couldn't help but stare, that is until those beady eyes caught him from behind their spindly spectacles and he would scurry to hide in the sleeve of his mother's coat.

After that was the fabric store next door, the display exactly the same as it had been all those years ago. Most of his memories of it consisted of the smells and textures. He recalled walking down the rows with his hand outstretched to trail along the rolls of fabric, the feeling of them against his fingertips going from rough to soft to smooth to bristly. He would stroke the fake fur as though it were a real animal, lay his upper body over it, his cheek pressed deep into it, and run his palms up and down so that the hairs tickled between his fingers.

Their last stop would always be the café where the woman behind the counter would dote on him, exclaiming how smart he looked in his Sunday best. And when he would gaze hopefully into the glass case full of the most indulgent looking cakes his mother would tut and, with feigned reluctance, say "well, since you were so good for me today". A slice of something tooth-rottingly sweet and a pot of tea for them to share as they sat by the window to watch the people go by and draw pictures in their condensed breath on the glass.

It was dark inside the tiny, one roomed establishment but Arthur could see the layout, their regular, two-person table pushed up against the window, a little vase of flowers that had seen better days atop the lacey tablecloth. While not quite sad, it seemed a ghostly place when uninhabited, like the door may open without help, a transparent woman standing behind the counter ready to take his order.

While the last shop among the restricted selection wasn't one the pair would frequent, it was one that they had been to a handful of times. A music store, the place Arthur had purchased his first guitar and where his mother would occasionally look for new sheet music for the church choir. It stuck out amongst the others, looking far too modern in comparison to the rest of the quaint businesses so that it drew the eye in the wrong sort of way. He didn't think it to be unforgivably hideous, unlike his mother, but Arthur had to admit it was rather a smudge on the overall pleasant aesthetic of the street, the neon sign and black concrete walls seeming obnoxious beside the pastel fronted windows.

Glancing up at the storefront as he passed, though, he found the sign vanished, a hole in the wall where it had been ripped out and wires hanging loose in what was certainly not a safety approved manner. Curiosity slowed him, and he waited a moment, contemplating whether he cared enough to investigate, before inching closer.

Cupping his hands against the window, he peered through, nose to the cool glass, and was taken aback to see the place gutted. Nothing but the dust in the air left behind, the former shop was left in its barest state, floorboards ripped out to reveal the framework below like a wooden skeleton, the walls shown to be sun bleached against the darker patches that had once been covered by tacky posters. It was strange to see since the rest of the road seemed locked in time, but he was sure the locals were happy the eyesore was finally gone.

He stepped away, taking a last look up then stuffed his hands back into his pockets and forged onward. As he walked, he felt the need to concentrate on the act of walking, as though should his focus be allowed to waver he would trip over his own feet or stop dead in his tracks, his legs at a loss of what they should do. It was a strange compulsion that refused to cease as he went the rest of the way, almost walking into several different lampposts before he reached the safety of his driveway.

Inside and no longer alone, his unwelcomed self-absorption loosened, and he hadn't been so grateful for his partner's unintrusive company in a while. He eased out a noiseless sigh as he relaxed into the warmth of his home, slipping off his coat and shoes at the threshold.

"Cherie?" came a call from the living room to which Arthur replied with his presence as he went to linger in the doorway.

Francis sat reclining on the sofa and perked up when his beloved came into view, looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted when Arthur said nothing more than a hello.

"Well what?" the other responded, still in a state of mental fog.

Raising both brows eagerly, Francis made himself clear. "How did it go?"

"Oh, right, it was fine," Arthur put simply, shrugging a shoulder.

Pausing as though he expected more to come, the older man's forehead wrinkled.

"Is that all? Just fine?" he expressed his disappointment, apparently having been anticipating something more entertaining.

"I don't really know what you want me to say," the man in the doorway listlessly mumbled, "It was alright. We didn't speak about anything that interesting."

"What did you speak about?" Francis persisted, "You do not have to tell me if you do not want to, but I am only interested."

By the way he was being looked at, Arthur could tell his significant other was fretting over him. He knew Francis liked the idea of him seeing a professional, that he was proud of him for doing so, and he didn't want to let him down, but he really felt he had nothing important to say about the experience.

"I mostly just told him about work," Arthur relayed, scratching at the back of his head, "What I do in the day and how it is at the moment. General things."

Nodding along, his full attention dedicated to his partner, Francis' tone was cautiously optimistic as he asked, "Do you think you will go back?"

"I booked again for Wednesday after work," the other confirmed to his delight.

Unable to stop himself from beaming, Francis stood and came over for a kiss.

"That makes me very happy," he emphasised, clasping the other's hands.

"Thanks," Arthur uttered, casting his glance aside awkwardly, quite uncomfortable.

The taller man's eyes still settled upon him with complete, adoring reverence, however, in a way that made Arthur's chest cramp as he realised how much this meant to him.

Finally relinquishing his besotted gaze, Francis raised their joined hands to his face in order to peck them sweetly but stopped to look at the newly dried blood on them.

Tutting, he drew attention to the state with a frown. "Lapin, why have you done that," he clucked disapprovingly, examining the scabs that had been picked at.

Arthur's own brow furrowed at the sight and he glanced down at his other hand to find blood beneath his jagged nails.

"I didn't realise," he confessed, taking his hand back.

The pressure of his first session must have gotten to him at some point as some of the scabs over his knuckles had been taken off completely thanks to a subconscious tick that Arthur didn't like to own up to having.

"They will leave scars if you keep doing that," Francis warned despite the fact he knew full well, "Must I put you in mittens to stop you?"

Cracking a slight smirk at the joke, Arthur went to the kitchen to wash away the dried layer, most of it flaking off easily. He scrubbed at the underside of his nails with a scouring pad but failed to dislodge the crescent shaped stain of copper, still fruitlessly picking and biting at them as he went through to sit beside his significant other. An arm was draped over his shoulder and he leant back to rest comfortably against Francis' hot chest.

Although not exactly crazy about his first try at therapy, Arthur had to admit it had left its mark. Physically he was in a room in his house with his partner but otherwise he felt he hadn't made it home. That he was wandering the streets still, distracted or trying to find something that wasn't there, a disturbed kind of feeling that wasn't necessarily bad but that he didn't quite enjoy. It felt as though he had opened up a chest of his most private and guarded possessions to find them ajar.

"Did you like him?" Francis picked up the conversation once more.

"He seemed nice," Arthur mildly praised.

"Matthew mentioned him to me, he seems to think very highly of him," the other commented.

"He's good at his job. Why, what do you think?" the younger man sensed that he was trying to get at something and turned to glace back at him.

"Well, you do not think maybe…" Francis trailed off, a coyly arched eyebrow and suggestive look filling in the rest.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur promptly rejected the idea. "I doubt it. He has to be a few years older than us," he gave his evidence, but Francis found it invalid.

"So? Age is but a number," he refuted.

Nose crinkling at the old saying, the other twisted in his seat. "Stop speculating, Francis. Even if he was seeing someone it wouldn't be any of our business."

A hypocritical statement as Arthur knew he could be just as prying as his partner. Out of concern for his brothers' wellbeing, of course. Against his back, he felt the larger man shrug and a hand threaded itself through his hair, playing with the short strands and combing them apart again.

"I just do not like to think he is lonely," Francis spoke the endearing sentiment in a hushed tone.

Lips twitching upward softly at the concern, a faint breath of a laugh left Arthur's nostrils as he reassured, "Of course he isn't. Not everyone finds their ideal match at sixteen, you know."

There was no reply, the room going quiet for a while, and a light flush broke out across the smaller man's cheeks as he realised what he had said. He could sense the smile on his lover's face as he was hugged closer to the other's body.

* * *

Waking to his alarm a full hour later than he was accustomed to, by Francis' insistence, the entire morning from that point on felt off. He kept to his usual routine but was a step behind the whole way through, like a lone violinist that had started a beat after the rest of the orchestra. Faces he usually would have been ahead of in the commuter's procession bobbed past the window as he stood at the kitchen counter, sipping from his mug. The extra hour's sleep was something he was thankful for but the forced leisure of it all put him on edge and so a few minutes later he tipped the rest of his tea down the sink and walked out into the ever more begrudging morning sun.

He was surprised to find it unusually tepid outside with a dampness in the air that turned everything a shade greyer. Thick clouds remained static in their positions and darkened in a smooth gradient to the point that the sky in the distance looked as though sunrise had missed a patch. Walking in opposition to the downward drifting mist, Arthur found himself alone, caught in a time slot between the first wave of city workers and the panicked rush of late comers.

The bus was equally as desolate and, despite the heavy clanking of the mechanisms, peaceful, in a way. Rather than capitalising on this solitude by taking out the book from his briefcase, or getting a head start on the papers he was meant to be working on at home, however, he did as he would have done anyway and stared blankly out the window at the view he knew too well.

Disembarking with a couple of people he recognised, he strode into the office block with blinders on, navigating the maze through muscle memory and sitting himself at his desk without so much as eye contact with his fellow employees. It wasn't as though he ever stopped to chat, nor was he especially approachable even, but that day in particular he hoped he was left alone. When left to his own devices he could almost pretend he wasn't at work at all.

The outdated PC clunked into action with the press of a button and flooded the room with retina burning light. Shifting some of the files that obscured his desktop with his elbow, Arthur lent upon it, chin in hand, and began sifting through e-mails. The fact that he found the spam ads more interesting than what most of his colleagues had to say truly showed his less than complementary opinion of the people he worked with.

Time passed no faster than he expected it to, the world of the office moving at half speed, as he apathetically attempted to carve a path through the papers around him. With such a volume to get through, though, it was impossible to know where to start and his brain shut down immediately at the sight of it, leaving him to shuffle aimlessly through the heaps, unable to do anything with the information presented to him.

A few hours of this and he was completely zoned out, coming back to his conscious self to find he had been staring at a piece of paper with nothing but the last months date and the word 'urgent' on it for the past fifteen minutes. Blinking his vision back into focus, Arthur lowered the paper and glanced around himself as though he didn't remember how he had gotten there. In a more existential sense, he didn't really.

He let go of what he was holding, letting the sheet slide from his grasp to the desktop and rubbed at his face with the heels of his palms. Hunger didn't bother him, nor did thirst, but boredom made him restless and a change of scenery was necessary for the sake of his waning sanity. Rising from his seat, he left the papers where they lay scattered and exited to the hall, nearly colliding with a hurried colleague as he stepped out. He rummaged around in his pocket on his journey down the corridor, finding he quite conveniently had the exact change for a cup of tea, and took the lift down to the cafeteria.

The poorly laid out hall seemed busier than usual, substantially so, with a line of people waiting to be served nearly reaching the doorway. Arthur, however, had brought the previous nights leftovers per order of his other half, which he planned to eat alone in his office or scrape into the bin once he got home, and so went on regardless. Serving himself at the hot drinks machine he took the flimsy, paper cup over to the only spare table he could see, one at the far end of the room tucked away in the corner by a window.

While not exactly a stimulating view, at least he could see outside. There was something about that building that made it easy to forget that life existed outside of those four walls. Not that there was a whole lot of it to observe beyond them as far below on the street outside, it seemed the human race had ceased to exist. Some pigeons speckled the paving slabs, strutting about and pecking at the ground and one another, and vehicles sped along the roads but other than that no sign of life showed.

Leaning over the table to rest on his forearms, he dunked the teabag that still floated in his cup absentmindedly as he watched the darkened clouds he had seen in the distance on his way to work now rolling overhead. No rain slipped from their black folds and they left only a shadow as a reminder of their presence. It seemed enough of a threat to drive the town's population inside, though. They sailed slowly, in no particular rush, and lingered directly above. Billowing high over the roof, like the smoke from a factory chimney, an expulsion of filth pumped out into the atmosphere.

"I'm sorry, Sir, do you mind if I sit with you?"

It was Erika he was brought to attention by, as seemed to be something of a regular occurrence, and he turned his head to face the girl who stood awaiting his answer.

"Of course not," Arthur assured her, his tone audibly tired, more subdued than usual.

She smiled her thanks and daintily seated herself in the other free chair across from him and Arthur went back to gazing detachedly through the window. Although he didn't want to be rude, he really had nothing to say and felt that a forced conversation would be more awkward than silence.

As he looked through the glass pane, however, he couldn't help but half watch her via her reflection as she nibbled at a sandwich she pulled from her pink lunchbox. He noted she wore a plain white blouse and pencil skirt, far more mature than her usual frilly, floral dresses and cardigan combination. The same could be said for her hair, which was pulled away from her face and clamped in place tidily. Unfortunately, the affect was somewhat ruined by the red lipstick that smeared across her thin lips, spilling over the heart shaped arch of her cupids bow so that she appeared rather like a child that had gotten into her mother's makeup bag.

"You look nice today," he remarked without thinking about how the comment might be perceived.

Thankfully the compliment was taken as such and the young woman showed she didn't suspect him of any misconduct with a bashful smile.

"Oh, thank you Sir," she breathed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I thought I should try to look professional for the visitors."

His attention caught by this, Arthur glanced over. "Visitors?" he recapitulated.

"Did you not know?" Erika cocked her head a little, her huge, round eyes, made to look even larger by the crudely applied mascara, looking into him, "There are meetings for the European directors being held here this week."

Her voice held a spark of excitement, she clearly hoped she would be noticed or commended for her work in some sense and Arthur didn't have the heart to tell her that she was practically invisible to anyone who earned more than six figures a year.

"That's why it is so busy," she added.

"So it is," Arthur murmured in return, gaze flicking in the opposite direction to survey the bustling hall.

As she had described, the room was overflowing with people of obvious power. Executives clad in suits that cost more than Arthur earned in a month sat in groups speaking various languages but all with the same confident brashness to their words. He envied them in some ways. Well, only one way if he was being honest; for their success. While he may not have been the typical business man, there had been a time when he had almost been swept up in the mind set and seeing his squandered potential in the form of others his own age and far beyond him in rank should have caused him to feel regret at chances not taken.

Yet, it didn't. He supposed that meant he had made the right choice, but it didn't seem right he should feel that way. He was ambitious, after all, felt he could and should do better than what he managed. There was a time he would have given anything to be sat alongside the people around him, working a sixty-hour week for the sake of prestige, for the respect of others born into their titles. He could remember being intoxicated by the idea, something so attainable as success by a wealthy man's standards was an achievable goal. In a moment of what he now considered madness, more than four years ago when he had found the stability of an office job so seductive, he had been ready to trade everything to reach that goal. Family, love and friends just didn't have the same sparkle as a Rolex and the shining possibility of it all had blinded him momentarily.

Luckily for him, before he made any commitments he couldn't take back the relentless blows life dealt him had knocked some sense back into him and whatever cloud fogged his judgement had cleared. In fact, he was slightly horrified whenever he looked back upon the choices he could have made, not that he did so often.

Looking back at Erika he caught her dabbing at her lips with her little finger while scrutinizing her reflection in the window. Even when dressed like every middle-aged woman in the office, she still looked no older than a teenager and the way she uncomfortably tugged at the loose chest area of her shirt made her look even more like an adolescent trying to grow up too fast. As someone who had been forced to act older than his age against his will, Arthur hoped she wasn't doing that to herself.

Casting his glace to the roads below once more before he left, in time to see a dappled pigeon swoop by, he took the warmed cup as he stood.

"Enjoy the rest of your day," he bid his co-worker who looked over at him, her coloured lips turned up at the corners, and wished him the same in return.

Swerving around several, inconsiderate people that blocked the doorway, Arthur strolled down the hall in the direction of his office at a more leisurely pace than usual. He was in no hurry to be back there, the only reason he had left the cafeteria was his inability to hold a conversation, plus he had never been a fan of crowds. Briefly he considered taking the lift all the way down to spend a few moments in the open solitude of the street but felt his nerves couldn't take the temptation should any smokers be loitering around the entrance, as they usually did in the early afternoon.

Therefore, he opened the door to his dismal hole, the disorder that lay across everything like a layer of thick dust repellent for its hopelessness. It was ridiculous to him, really, when contrast with the thoughts that had returned to him several minutes earlier. A man once so determined now unable to keep his desk clean. He could have laughed until he cried or vice versa.

Dragging his feet over the threshold, he stopped beside the desk and set down his cup. He reached out languid a hand and flicked the top pages of a pillar of documents, the light touch causing the entire stack to topple onto the floor. Emotionless, he looked down at it. A sigh, or something even less invested than a sigh, blew from him, shoulders slacking tiredly as he gathered himself to stack them up again.

He bent at the knees, squatting to pick up the first page and scanned it quickly to see whether it was something he may as well deal with or if it could go back to being ignored on a shelf somewhere. The date at the top read two weeks prior and he filed it into the latter category. Keeping the first page in hand he went to pick up another, that date telling him it should have been completed a month ago, the third sheet informing him similarly, and the next and the next.

A wad of crumpled paper tucked under his arm, Arthur fell back from his haunches to be sat on the carpet. Leaning against the desk, his head dropped back, and his eyes closed in mild frustration. Yet again he found himself overwhelmed. All that stopped him from burning the place to the ground was a lack of a lighter and energy to do so. And his regard for human life, he mentally added as he realised how dark his thoughts were swiftly becoming.

Nonetheless, he'd have run from the wretched block if his body didn't feel as thin and lifeless as the paper that surrounded him. Extending a hand out to the nearest sheet, his fingertips grazed the smooth texture but pulled it no closer. Sinking quickly into a demoralized state, he could think of nothing, do nothing, feel nothing more than the desk against his protruding bones and the wiry carpet against his palms.

With a sliver of mental control he briefly caught hold of, he lamented not using his time the day before as he should have done. Thought about how the situation could have been avoided if he had spoken about what he was meant to with Tino rather than telling pointless lies and avoiding his problems like he always did. Then perhaps he wouldn't have been where he was now. Perhaps he would be. There was no point in torturing himself with the what if's when he could already make himself miserable out of nothing at all.

He just needed to prioritise, Tino's advice mocked him. His inability to do so appeared to him as both his own fault and a curse placed upon him. Some sort of unwilling self-sabotage. The words echoed in his mind, 'prioritise, prioritise', but how was he supposed to prioritise things that were all equally as trivial.

His passive anger at it all had been expressed through his fingers as he remained otherwise motionless as they had curled around the papers he held, clenching as though he attempted to strangle them. Unfurling the rogue appendages, he glanced down at the inversed shape of his fist moulded into the wrung neck. He didn't like the violence he was capable of. It was never premeditated, but he found himself usually the instigator anyhow.

Crumpling the rest of the sheets into a ball with one hand, he clasped the whole of his hand around it, condensing it as much as he could then dropped it into the bin under his desk. Arm falling heavily back to the floor, he looked out to the mess splayed further away, a path of little white squares.

Although the woebegone hold around him had not been released, he managed to stand and moved to pick them up, gathering them in his arms. He didn't check the dates but knew they were from an outdated pile and so, somewhat impulsively, dropped them into the waste paper basket without a second thought.

Something in him lightened at the action. His forehead creased, and he looked to the cleared space on his desk, a patch he no longer needed to worry about, and the feeling seemed to spur him on. 'Prioritise', his head told him, the word encouraging this time. The next pile over, a small one, had been a bother to him, so that's where he moved to. Flipping through it, he discarded the documents that had become redundant, chucking them immediately into the bin, and signed off on the ones still with a day or two left before their deadlines.

This system worked well, so well in fact that he hardly realised the day was passing him by as he worked, the negativity being shaken from him little by little. Inadequacy was channelled into the motivation to do better and, from the sense of gratification he gained, was repeated. His underlying tensions added to the burst of productivity, an extra surge and a good way to use his nervous energy.

By the time the clock showed five at least half of the shining desk surface was visible, and the waste basket was piled high with screwed up paper. Taking his jacket from the back of his chair, Arthur allowed himself a subdued nod of pride and locked up for the night. His journey home was the direct opposite to that of the way in as he slumped back a little in his seat, watching the houses pass by his window, pleasantly worn out and, strangely, not dreading the day to come.

The week proceeded in such a fashion as he clung to the marvellous advice of his councillor. While completing no new work he threw out the old, tons of it per day, in an ongoing, frenzied spasm. At Wednesdays' meeting he spoke of his efforts, which seemed to please said councillor who bobbed his head in approval while he made notes. Not much was discussed, no new topics brought up, they simply carried on from where they had left off and Arthur updated him on the mundanities of his life.

Each day the energy became more intense, more crazed, more so that it began to control him. No longer was he harnessing its power, but it had taken his body and forced itself inside. It inhabited him and refused to leave, filling him with more than he could burn off. Despite keeping him awake through the night, he still felt as though something in him blazed. Out of the extremes of the spectrum he had experienced, he could easily say this was not the one he preferred.

It must have come across in some way as, sat at the dinner table, thoroughly wracked by it all, Francis commented on his bizarre state.

"Arthur, what has gotten into you?" he interrupted his own sentence to ask with a scowl.

Having been too preoccupied with what consumed him to be listening, Arthur's gaze flicked up from his untouched food.

"Hm?" he blinked, just about catching on to the sound of his own name.

Furrowed brow creasing further, Francis' voice took on a familiarly soft inflection. "You are practically vibrating, you have been like this all week," he drew attention to his partner's leg which bounced in place under the table.

Forcefully ceasing the unconscious action, Arthur cast his eyes back down at his plate, tucking his legs under his chair.

"I just…feel off, is all," he exhaled quietly.

Receiving no further elaboration, Francis was able to read the detached demeanour of his other half.

"Is this about this weekend?" he inferred, assuming the nearing date was causing inner tensions to rise.

Arthur hadn't cared to think about what the root of his current behaviour might be, too focused on simply trying to deal with the symptoms of it to find the cause. It wasn't too much of a leap in logic, however, and he had no other explanation.

"Maybe," he muttered as he realised, he hadn't thought once in the past week about what was to happen that very weekend.

Watching his partner half-heartedly stab at a piece of carrot Francis seemed about to say something but pursed his lips and reached over the table to softly lay a hand over the other's cool fingers in a display of quiet support. Arthur, now plagued by that one specific thought, glanced up, offering a perfunctory quirk of the lips to show the affection was acknowledged. Unconvinced by the insipid expression, Francis gave the hand in his a gentle squeeze and continued eating.

"I spoke with Alfred today, to arrange everything," he brought up, "He said he tried to call you, but you did not answer."

Checking his phone for the first time that day, Arthur saw there was indeed a missed call from his brother.

"Oh, he did," he murmured more to himself than the man across from him.

"No matter, we organised everything between us," Francis went on, "We will hire a cab to pick us up first and then go and collect the boys. Thank goodness he is going on a Sunday because he only realised yesterday that he leaves at five in the morning."

Half listening to what was being told to him, Arthur nodded along vaguely. The feeling that had arrived so abruptly was gone just as fast, drained from his body, the heavy weight of dread taking its place. His chest began to ache, right at the bottom so as it felt like his lungs were flooding. It remained there all night, intensifying as he lay down in bed, refusing to let him sleep, and was stubbornly unmoved when morning came.

The lack of a programmed screaming reminded him that the weekend that had seemed so far in the future was upon him and despite his scheduled appointment being only an hour away, he procrastinated every action. He remained under the heat of the shower long after he was clean, the pounding water scorching his back, yet he remained numb. Once in his towel he sat at the foot of the bed, staring emotionlessly into the wardrobe until the beads of water rolling down his spine had dried leaving his skin taught and chilled.

A creaking in the hallway brought him halfway back to the present and he threw on various articles of clothing, paying little attention to whether they were compatible, with complaintive limbs that seemed to work against him. Quickly pressing a kiss to his partner's lips as he left the house, he lingered on the other side of the door before idling his way down the road in the bland December sun. The air was thin but dry and still, barely a degree colder outside than it was in and the streets were, as they always seemed to be those days, curiously barren.

Footsteps echoing through the pale midday, Arthur took his time, reluctant to be there but eager to have it over with. He recalled doing the same at school when on his way to his least favourite lessons, aiming to arrive a few minutes late as it made the rest of the lesson feel shorter. It wasn't something he would allow himself to do often, he was still a dedicated student after all, but missing out on the first ten minutes of food technology wasn't going to hurt anyone else. In fact, Ms Evans always looked quite disappointed when he actually turned up.

The empty hallways with their stained, linoleum floors and displays falling off the walls had always felt so much wider when he wasn't being knocked out of the way by larger students and he enjoyed the peace. Occasionally he might even find himself delaying his arrival to a lesson he enjoyed simply to savour the brief tranquillity of it. Lost in his thoughts, Arthur hadn't realised that his legs had carried him to the entrance of the office and was startled by his own reflection in the frosted glass of the front door.

After only two visits previously, the foyer of the small building had already become a familiar place, perhaps due to how average it was. He tugged at the neck of his jumper, the coarse material abrasive to the skin, as he went through to sit on the waiting area sofa but stopped when the door to the right of him opened and the man he had come to see caught him mid action.

"Arthur, good afternoon, come in," Tino greeted warmly, "I haven't kept you waiting, have I?"

"No, I just arrived," Arthur responded, his voice still husky from lack of use.

"Good, good," the other smiled and held the door for him.

Sliding past the smaller man with a nod of thanks, Arthur took his usual seat, wedging himself against the arm rest.

"How have you been since I saw you last?" Tino asked as he sorted through a couple of draws, the items inside them rolling about.

"Good, thanks," Arthur replied, glancing over, "Yourself?"

"Very well, thank you," the other's lilting cadence was quite agreeable to the ear and always made him sound as though he had just been pleasantly surprised.

A few more seconds of quietly rifling through his desk and Tino found what he was looking for. He pulled out pair of glasses that Arthur had never seen him wear before and came over to take a seat opposite his client, crossing his legs.

"Alright, it looks like last time we had just started talking about daily routines," he recapped, flipping through his notebook, "Would you like to carry on?"

Arthur cast his mind back but found he couldn't remember the discussion he was referring to; the previous week having passed in a blur leaving behind only snippets of memory.

"Yes, sure," he assented all the same.

"Okay, I have written here that you were talking about the new routine you had started and how that was going well for you," Tino read off from his notes, periwinkle eyes flitting up from his pad every now and then to check on the affirming nods he was being given.

Whether he knew that Arthur had already stopped listening or not, Arthur couldn't tell but he carried on talking and looking up and so the other continued to bob his head slowly in pretend understanding. The sound that came from the moving lips he watched didn't reach him but whenever they'd stop, waiting for his reply, Arthur would make some noise of ambiguous meaning, maybe nod or shake his head, and go back to listening to the white noise inside his skull once the attention was off him.

There was no clock in the room, but he mentally counted down the minutes until the session was over. His time keeping skills weren't exactly amazing, however, and every time he was sure that the other was wrapping up for the day, he began a new topic. How had this new routine affected his sleeping habits? Did he feel more productive? Did he feel less stressed? He wouldn't have known how to answer even if he had been listening.

The window at the back of the office was semi covered by blinds but between the slats Arthur spotted movement out on the lawn in front of the building. Squinting a little to see better, a more complete image came into view, a singular magpie hopping about the green backdrop. He watched it a while, how it skipped over the unevenly mown blades of grass, sleek, black tailfeathers twitching as it lowered its head to peck at the solid earth. The soil wasn't frozen, so the bird probably wasn't starving but he felt sympathy for it nonetheless and remembered how he had forgotten to put out that bird feeder he had bought during the summer.

"Arthur?"

Slowly he turned his head back to look at the man that sat patiently waiting for him to re-join him in the tangible world.

"Yes?" Arthur answered as though they hadn't been having a conversation the entire time.

Brows hitching up a little in the middle, the other's tone softened even further than its usual, gentle quality, "Are you alright? You seem distracted."

"Sorry, I'm just a bit tired," he apologised.

"You have not been sleeping well?" Tino latched onto the hint, something that Arthur had noticed him do before.

"Well, just last night, really," Arthur diminished, still feeling the need to guard himself in response to the other's intuitive questioning.

Turning the page of his notepad, Tino leaned on an elbow against the armrest, the end of his pen rested against his chin.

"Do you know why that might be?" he queried.

Arthur had left a chink in his armour that Tino was more than happy to go for. He could see why Matthew had been so eager to praise him, he was very good at his job. Disturbingly so.

"I…had a lot on my mind," Arthur mediated his words, his subconscious telling him to defend against the well-meant drilling while the rest of him felt he should make the effort of honesty.

"Could you tell me what exactly?"

He should have predicted the next sentence yet still found he struggled for an answer.

"Well, I, um, my brother…" he was incapable of coming up with a cover story but found expressing the real reason to be just as troublesome. Tino waited, however, expecting an answer one way or another. "It's Alfred," he eventually stated, "he's going away tomorrow."

Tomorrow, he thought to himself, the word sticking.

"Oh? Where to?" the other inquired.

"Ohio," Arthur began to pick a little at the edge of one of the fading scabs on his hand but caught himself doing so and stopped, his eyes dropping.

"And you are concerned," Tino said, quite purposefully not as a question this time.

"Yes, but anyone would be, wouldn't they?" Arthur rationalised, lifting his gaze to briefly meet the other man's then drifting away as he continued, "and he won't be gone for long. Less than two weeks."

His sentence came apart towards the end, sounding unconvincing even to himself, although he was unsure as to who he was trying to convince and what of.

"But you still worry," the smaller man pointed out, "What is it that worries you, would you say?"

Mouth opening, Arthur refused to look back at him, the nape of his neck warming rapidly. Whatever closure he may have felt not long ago appeared to be only a front, something felt in the moment that hadn't lasted and shame scorched his cheeks at his fixation on the same, worn out issue. It was like a body buried in a grave too shallow, uncovered every time the lightest shower washed away the earth that covered it.

"Arthur?" Tino called him back for a second time, "Is everything alright?"

Gaze lingering on the widow his eyes were glassily directed at, Arthur cleared his throat and turned his face.

"Yes, fine," he faked.

There was silence as he sensed the man across from him watching. He couldn't bring himself to look over, though, to speak up about what bothered him so much like he knew Tino was waiting for him to do.

"I like your desk," he came out with instead.

It sounded stupid, he was well aware of that, and it was obvious that he was changing the subject, but he was too desperate to care.

"Thank you, my partner made it for me," Tino complied.

"They're very talented," Arthur complimented, the heat of his neck curling around his ears too.

The other paused a moment, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs as he prepared to bring their exchange back around to the point his patient had swerved it from but first checked his watch. Lips forming an expression of mild displeasure, an unfitting look on his sweet-natured features, he relented.

"I'll tell him you said so," his unflappable composure returned, "This is something we will start with next time."

Arthur held in his sigh of relief as a simultaneous pang of foreboding wracked him at the certainty of the plan. He nodded though, and stood, happily taking his que to leave.

"I will see you during the week?" Tino rose also and walked with his client to the door.

"Yes, most likely," Arthur agreed, slowing his pace so as he didn't seem so keen to get away.

"Alright, I hope I haven't taken up too much of your weekend," the smaller man stopped by the doorframe and Arthur shot back a tight-lipped expression with a jaunty nod by way of parting.

He spoke with the woman behind the desk, different from the one he had seen the last time or the time before and escaped the building. The stiff climate outside was a contrast to his boiling skin and he ran a hand over the back of his neck to find it sticky. Pulling at the collar of his jumper to allow his skin to breath he frowned as he noticed it was on back to front.

With nothing to hang around for, he made it home before the afternoon truly set in and collapsed heavily onto the sofa. He was alone in the house, as he had known he would be, Francis having told him that morning he was to go out and hunt for more paint samples with Eliza. An excursion that he was grateful to be left out of.

Crumpling down further against the cushions, his eyes ceased to see as he let a thousand-yard stare take over. His fraught mind in total contrast to his body, which lay limply idle, there was nothing to distract him, nothing to occupy him, and so he gave in to the mood, remaining stationary, head full of incoherent worry, until Francis returned home.

Aware he should know better than to ask, the older man looked in at him from the hallway, a sympathetic inflection in his voice.

"Are you okay?" he entreated, receiving a blank faced nod in return. "Did you want to talk about anything?" he tried again but was given the same, lifeless denial.

He had expected nothing else, a typically Arthur way of dealing with things and one he had yet to crack the code to. Rather than attempting to force his way in, however, Francis thought it best not to add any unnecessary stress to the picture of tension he saw.

"Tell me if you change your mind," he offered gently.

Once more, Arthur nodded and kept his mouth shut, as he did the rest of the day.

A frazzled mess by the time he slipped into bed, Arthur almost felt bad that Tino was wasting his time on him. Francis set an alarm for half past two in the morning, jestingly grumbling about his beauty sleep then pecked the other on the lips to which Arthur barely reacted.

Laying on his side, held close to the body next to him, he made no effort to try to get to sleep, staring wide eyed at the wall that blurred in and out of focus in his fatigued vision. The few hours they had before they needed to get up again passed in the same kind of way they did when he was at work. Chunks of time seemed to go missing while minutes refused to budge. A jittering of nerves in the pit of his stomach would spark every so often then fizzle out again. Any bid to talk himself down from the frenetic heights he had worked himself up to was beyond his capability and as the alarm startled his partner awake, he felt the slightest sweep of respite as his wait came to an end.

Still in a state of unconsciousness, Francis reached out to end the noise and took a few minutes to come to terms with waking.

"Amour?" he croaked to check if Arthur was awake.

He hummed to show that he was and the sheets around him moved as Francis got up stiffly from the mattress. The sound of spurting water came from the bathroom and he listened to it fully, a welcomed protest to the silence of the past, lonesome hours. Breathing in deeply through his nose, the scent of damp warmth filled his lungs. Briefly closing his eyes which stung from overuse, he sat up slowly, nausea in his throat, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

For a moment he feared he might vomit but the unpleasant sensation was temporary and once passed he stood with clicking knees. Something halfway between a sigh and a yawn trickled from him and his eyelids drooped, suddenly wanting nothing more than to sleep, his temperamental body doing everything it could to frustrate him. All he felt, though, was a sickening heavy-heartedness.

Swaying on unstable legs, spine straining to keep the meagre amount of flesh around it supported, Arthur drifted towards the bathroom, feet scraping over the carpet. The door was only pushed to, not fully closed as any need for privacy between the two of them had faded long ago, and he nudged it slightly with his shoulder as he entered. It squeaked a little, not loud enough to alert his other half who didn't notice his presence until he pulled open the glass door to the shower.

"Arthur? What are you doing?" Francis turned around, confused to see his partner stepping into the cubicle with him, still clothed and red eyed.

An obstruction forming low in his throat, Arthur wordlessly closed the door behind him, head bowed, and buried his face in the other's wet neck. The shoulders he sought comfort in rose and fell in a solicitous breath.

"It is alright, amour. It will be fine," Francis consoled, laying a kiss atop his soaked hair and wrapping both arms around him.

Eyes burning, Arthur couldn't tell whether there were tears or not but the lump that near suffocated him grew less as they stood together in quietly understanding company.

"Come now," Francis whispered after a while, "We cannot be late after I have spent the whole week telling him to be ready."

Nodding weakly against his partner, the smaller man pulled away and stripped himself of his waterlogged clothing, leaving it on the floor of the shower. Before he could turn to leave, however, his face was caught by a tender hand.

"It will be alright. Je promets," the older man vowed, glancing between his lover's bloodshot eyes.

"I know," Arthur's attempt to add a convincing smile turned out more like a mild facial spasm, the corners of his lips twitching but not going anywhere.

A look not much more persuasive was shown back to him and he was allowed to leave and drip his way back to the bedroom. He threw on the clothes from the day before, towel dried his hair so that it stuck up at different angles and sat back on the bed, chewing at his lip, waiting. Francis joined him before too long, getting dressed, calling a cab and texting everyone that needed texting, being generally of use while Arthur continued to zone out in the background.

Their plan running smoothly, the car arrived, and the couple went shivering into the starry morning. The sky was clear, and Arthur settled back in his seat, face close to the window so he could appreciate the rarely seen dots against the darkness. By the time they were outside his brothers' residence the glass was fogged over and he swiped it clean with his coat sleeve as they slowed to a stop beside the two boys.

Both were shuddering violently having been waiting there a while, but an excited smile split the face of the elder of them, enthusiasm not hindered at all, it seemed. Throwing the few bags Alfred had packed into the boot, they came around to slide in beside the older two men.

"Ooh boy, what took you guys," Alfred sat opposite Arthur on one of the fold-down seats rubbing his hands together, still grinning.

"Apologies, cherie, but there is no need to worry, we have plenty of time," Francis spoke tiredly but a gently amused expression adorned his face, "How are you feeling? Nervous?"

He commented on the younger man's exuberant demeanour as he sat fidgeting.

"All excitement, man," he beamed.

"And you, Mattieu?" Francis directed at the younger twin who jerked out of his half dozing state at being addressed.

"Hm?" he blinked through steamed up lenses and rubbed his face, "Sorry, it's too early."

A small simper curled Arthur's lip at his brother's hibernatory habits.

"It's alright Matt, go back to sleep. We won't be there for a while," he empathised with the complaint, never having understood how people like Francis and Alfred didn't seem to mind early starts.

The other nodded, eyelids already descending, and pulled his hood over his face as he leaned back against the headrest.

"I don't get how you can be so tired, dude, I'm wired the fuck up," Alfred enthused, "I couldn't even get to sleep."

"Good for you," his twin groused back.

Ignoring the sarcasm, he turned to his former guardians. His usually bright manner seemed about to burst at the seams as his whole being radiated joy.

"Thanks for coming with me though, guys. I appreciate it," he showed his gratitude.

Unable to remain sullen in the face of such feverish elation, the elder Kirkland managed to return a sliver of his expression.

"Of course," he hummed, then fell back into silence.

No one seemed to mind so much that he stayed largely mute through the rest of the hours journey, an easy conversation continuing between the other two conscious passengers, yet he did feel guilty that he couldn't show excitement for his brother when he clearly wanted him to. It was selfish of him.

Airports were strange places, Arthur always found, and they made people act strangely by extension. No one thought it odd behaviour to arrive three hours early or eat dinner at five in the morning or sleep on the floor. Everyone was too concerned with what they were doing to notice the people around them, he supposed and noted the strung-out expressions of those that passed them by as they entered.

"We got just over an hour to kill," Alfred announced, catching sight of a clock beside a list of departures.

"Is anyone hungry?" Francis asked, a redundant question when speaking to the human disposal unit that was Alfred, "I will buy."

They followed the little picture signs that showed them the way to an unfamiliar chain eatery where they sat and ordered or neglected to order in Arthur's case. As he had in the car, he listened to the upbeat chattering of his family while his attention was elsewhere, looking out at the lives of others. Couples meeting with passionate embraces or parting with tear streaked faces, business people zipping past on conveyer belts whilst on their phones, a family with a little girl who bounded along with a sparkly pink suitcase.

"You'll be back on the twenty-eighth, right," he interjected at a lull in the conversation. He knew this to be the case yet for some reason needed to be told again, looking for consolation in the certainty.

"Mm-hm, but you don't have to come meet me, I can get back fine on my own," Alfred assured them, biting into a strip of bacon.

"Do not say that, we will be there when you get home," Francis wouldn't take his offer for an answer.

Rolling his eyes at his family's protectiveness despite his appreciation for it, the younger man shrugged.

"Sure, if you really want to," he yielded, "and you better not take the tree down before I get back. I'm not expecting you to wait for me or anything, but I want to have a proper Christmas day with you all."

"Oui, cheri, we will save it all until you get back," Francis chuckled lightly at his childlike love for the season.

By the time they had finished there was another half hour to spare so the four of them ambled aimlessly around the various duty-free shops on offer and waited as Alfred bought an excessive number of snacks for the plane. Steadily making their way to the terminal number on the ticket, the pattern of jet engines rumbling then fading away again repeated and they passed by several windows through which they watched them take off. Each time, Arthur felt his heart constrict a little.

Before too long, an announcement pertaining to the fated flight blared over the tonoi and the group simultaneously stopped where they were. A few beats in which nothing was said, each of them needing a moment to process feelings they may not have expected to arise, then Alfred turned around to face them.

"I've got to get through security and everything first, so I guess this is it," he still grinned madly but there was a hesitance to his tone.

"Mon gentil petit garçon, we will miss you more than you can imagine," the oldest among them instantly flung himself at the boy, hugging him tight and wailing melodramatically as he showered kisses over his cheeks, "You must call us every day and tell us everything and promise me to be good."

Simply laughing at the display that most people his age would have found humiliating, Alfred squeezed his surrogate brother back.

"Yes, I promise, Francis. I'll be good as gold," he repeatedly pledged until the onslaught of affection had ceased and he moved on to his next goodbye.

"Just don't do anything stupid," Matthew disparagingly joked, brow quirked as his twin stepped forward.

"Oh Mattie," the older of them exhaled as he pulled his only younger relative into a bear hug, "When have I ever listened to you."

Dealing him several hardy pats on the back before he let go, he garnered quite the eye roll from the younger man who muttered something about his stupidity under his breath with a humoured smile.

Frozen in place as he had been since the announcement had sounded, Arthur could sense three sets of eyes on him, waiting for him to say something, their anticipation making it worse. He knew he couldn't remain staring at the floor forever, but after the weeks of dread, of ignoring what was to come, he found he couldn't quite accept the reality of the moment arriving.

"I…hope it's a good trip," he heard himself saying and looked up to meet those eyes the colour of spring flowers and that held the hopeful air of the season too, "And I want you to have fun and to be sensible, of course."

His voice cracked as he finished the sentiment and he cleared his throat to try and cover it, heart thudding in his chest.

For once, it appeared he wasn't the one lost for words as Alfred failed to respond. His eyebrows came together in concern and his lips pursed as he was confronted by the parting he too had been worried over.

"Thanks, you know I will be but…just, please, don't worry about me, Art," he beseeched, his eyes so painfully earnest that Arthur could feel himself mirroring the expression, "You don't need to, I'll be just fine."

"I know," Arthur was surprised by how believable he sounded and even more so by how easily the two words came out, "I'll still miss you, though."

A lopsided smile creeping across his face, the younger sibling let slip a breath through his nose, the sound of a gentle, grateful laugh, and embraced his brother.

"I'll miss you too," his reply was uncharacteristically soft.

Although he had to stretch onto his toes to be able to put his arms around the much taller man, Arthur could have sworn that he was still but a child. With his eyes closed he was sure he was ten years in the past, his brother barely up to his shoulder, clinging to him for comfort after watching one too many scary movies, afraid of the monster under the bed. Back when he was the protector and when others still needed protecting, when he felt useful to his family.

Worried he was lingering; however, Arthur went to part them yet found that Alfred's grasp wouldn't allow it as he held on a few more seconds before he released him. Stepping back, the two of them exchanged looks of mutual concern and reassurance which soon eased into subdued smiles.

"Well, try to get on without me then, I guess," Alfred jested to his family, swinging his bags onto his back, "I love you guys."

"Nous t'aimons aussi, Alfred. Call us as soon as you land and tell us if you need help with anything and enjoy yourself," Francis shouted after him as he backed away down the corridor, continuing until he turned the corner with a beam and a wave.

His own smile faltering as his sibling disappeared from sight, the eldest of the brothers watched where he had vanished as a dull ache of abandonment made itself known.

"Do you guys want to go?" Matthew piped up, glancing over with dark ringed eyes, "Unless you want to stay and watch his plane take off."

Francis also looked to his partner for the decision, who tore his gaze from the place he projected his current despondency onto and nodded.

"No point hanging around," he tried and failed to make his tone sound unbothered.

Walking against the flow of passengers that made their way towards the terminals, the reduced group was noticeably quieter. A lifelessness took a hold of the atmosphere and Arthur couldn't defend against it. Left drained after hours of constant anxiety, he was complacent with the emptiness left behind, even glad for it in a way. It reminded him that the thing he had been so hysterical over had come and gone and he had survived. It hadn't been the end of the world. A warped form of positivity but positivity regardless.

The sky still a black slab, as it would be for several hours to come, the blinking lights of planes coming in to land were clearly visible against it as they left the airport. Repeatedly casting his eyes skyward, thinking he might coincidentally see the craft that carried his sibling away, while they waited in line for a cab, Arthur felt an arm twine around his waist and looked over to see his other half doing the same.

With nothing to say, the ride home carried a dejected air, Matthew falling asleep again while the older couple sat in private contemplation, their hands joined.

"I'll see you tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after," Matthew yawned as they pulled up outside his residence some time later.

"Whenever you can," Arthur gently encouraged, not wanting to seem desperate but unconsciously fretful over being further separated from his loved ones.

"Sure," he concurred, sliding over to the door, "I'll see you both later."

He swung the door closed behind him and they waited outside until he had made it into the foyer of his building. The driver turned to ask for their second address and Francis leaned forward in his seat to reply.

"Ah yes, would you please take us to the Smith street shopping plaza, or as close as you can get, merci."

Arthur knitted his brow as his partner gave the address of somewhere an hour away and he looked over in confusion to see him suppressing a rather smug expression.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded point blank, immediately sensing something was going on.

"There is no need to look so terrified, mon ange, I have a surprise for you," Francis fought to keep the excitement out of his voice but broke into a wide smile when he caught the other's eye.

"Well, can you tell me what it is please?" the man left in the dark imposed.

Tsking, Francis' tone was fiendish as he insisted, "If I tell you it will not be a surprise."

Arms folded, Arthur mustered up his most indignant look and directed it full force at his lover. "Today really isn't the day for this, Francis," he bit.

"On the contrary, I believe it is the perfect day," the devilish man stood firm, "Please, do you not trust me?"

"No," Arthur would have none of his teasing, looking uneasily out of the window as a knowing laugh fell past the other's lips.

* * *

Merry Christmas, here is my gift to you. My worst chapter yet. I really, really hate this one.

I know Tino might be kind of an odd choice for the role but personally I feel that its fitting. He comes across to me as very caring but also highly emotionally intelligent. And also I think he's cute.


	12. Chapter 12

"So, what did you drag us all the way out here for?" Arthur spoke as they got out of the vehicle after a half hour of restless silence.

"I will tell you when you stop sulking," Francis jibed in response to his boyfriend's sour disposition.

Arms crossed pointedly, the younger man doubled down on his indignance. "I'm not sulking, I just don't appreciate being pressganged into some secret mission when I could have gone back to bed."

"Where you can hole yourself away for the rest of the day? I think not," Francis rebuffed bluntly and began to walk in a seemingly aimless direction.

Frowning as he strode to catch up, Arthur's irritable mood shifted to apprehension and he tried to catch his partner's eye as he implored, "Well, we're here now so just tell me whatever you're planning."

Lips twitching, the older man's smug expression loosened slightly as he relented.

"Alright, cherie, as you seem to distrust me so," he placated, "We are here to pick up a…an early Christmas present, we shall say."

Still that self-satisfied smirk adorned his face as the other waited for more.

"What is it then?" he demanded, receiving only a subtle quirk of a brow in response.

Narrowing his eyes at his opponent, Arthur huffed and looked away.

"Fine, don't tell me," he gave up trying, knowing his partner could be just as stubborn as he was at times, "but it had better not be anything extravagant, I don't want you wasting money on something I don't need."

"Oh, I am fairly certain you will find it a good investment," Francis sang teasingly, having anticipated his lover to be resistant and relishing in every minute of the torture he could squeeze from his advantage, "and besides, it is not just for you, this is something for both of us."

This peaked the younger man's interest and he glanced over but found no further explanation, only the same piss-take smile, and so lapsed into silence.

Following his partner's lead, they meandered slowly down streets lined with bare bushes, the first birdsong of the day sprinkling the air. Between the interlacing twigs, Arthur caught the occasional movement, a rustle somewhere within the web of wood exposing a brown wing or beady eye.

The avian choir grew fainter as the two of them turned into the main plaza, away from the residential streets and into the walkway between shops, most of their shutters still drawn. The area was one of those up market places, where everything is pristine and white and horrendously overpriced. It hadn't always been that way, of course, as Arthur could remember a time when people were discouraged from straying there at night, but things had changed.

Under some government scheme an exorbitant amount of money had been pumped into the town; gentrification, he believed they called it. Basically, the practice of pricing out the majority by shutting down all the shops in the area and replacing them with ones no average person could afford to shop at, thus making way for the one percent. Now the place stood revamped and upgraded, trees lining every avenue and a jewellery store on each corner.

He had used to fear such a thing would happen to where he grew up as, although not a terrible area it was rather run down, and they depended on it remaining that way. There was no other place nearby that a single mother on near minimum wage could afford a three-bedroom home, after all. Not that they managed particularly well in their situation as it was, that is, as Alice had left in the wake of her death a considerable amount of debt as well as three orphaned children.

As such thoughts came back to him, Arthur realised, with some sadness, the relative freedom he had gained out of losing pretty much everything. Financial stability was a novelty he was still getting used to and the possibility it allowed was something that brought him a guilty excitement to think about. The loss of the family homestead may have been out of his control and he had put up an honourable fight but, in a way, it felt wrong to feel as though he'd been relieved of a burden. It wasn't as though he had traded up or anything, as he was made obvious by the lavish homes they now walked past.

Three stories, red brick, ivy climbing the wall and a pathway leading to the painted door made of crosshatched tiles. Each one they passed similar with varying details, a rose bush here a stained-glass window there, but Arthur could see himself in any one of them. An entire street filled with his dream home, the kind of place he hoped to one day live. A day that may actually come, he considered. At this a spark was struck within his chest, lighting his dormant ambition, yet he restrained himself from going as far as to recognise this as a goal. He dared not be too optimistic.

Veering off from their path again, it seemed he was being taken on a wild goose chase. They moved away from the main roads, down a detour and then another to come out to a stretch of unmarked buildings beside a construction site. Sketchy to say the least. Posted up against the chain link fence that contained the potential building project was a sign advertising a new condo complex and for a moment Arthur worried this was what Francis intended to show him, however, he turned towards the doorway of one of the square, whitewashed buildings instead.

There was a button outside the door which Francis pressed, and a worn-out buzzing could be heard through the wall. No answer came from within for a while and Arthur opened his mouth to ask what was going on but was pre-emptively refuted.

"You will see," Francis assured as they continued to stand waiting.

Eyes switching between his partner and the door, the suspense began to get to Arthur. Uneasiness pooled in his stomach as he bit at his inner lip, scenarios playing out in his head of what this could be. Looking to the man beside him once more, his saw his thin brow furrow slightly and he reached out to press the bell again.

As he did so the tapping of footsteps could be heard from inside and the door swung open to reveal a man, tall and tanned, who addressed the older of the couple in a muted tone.

"Mr Bonnefoy?" he identified.

"Oui, good morning," said man greeted cheerily, ignoring the concerned look his other half shot him.

"Heracles," was all the other said by way of introduction, seemingly half asleep, "I'll show you down."

With this he turned his back on them and went inside, meaning for them to follow, which Francis did without question while Arthur lingered on the doorstep, peering through. Noticing his partner trailing behind, Francis cast a glance over his shoulder and beckoned with a nod of his head, to which Arthur complied.

Down a hallway with walls a cold shade of light blue, the shape of large, rectangular bricks showing through the layer of gloss paint, they came to a staircase, leading them to a subterranean level. As they descended the scent of disinfectant and acidic cleaning products grew stronger and brought back memories of hospital wards.

The sharp echo of shoes on the metal staircase was the only sound for a while until something else came into earshot, muffled somewhere below them. A drawn-out cry, more than one. Squinting, as though that may improve his hearing, Arthur tried to decipher what they were but the noise the three men made drowned them out.

The mystery was solved without too much build up, though, as they reached the bottom of the staircase and came to another hallway where Heracles opened one of the four doors and a shockwave of meows blasted through.

"You can start in here," he directed, "I'll open the other doors for you, just make sure you close them when you leave."

Surprise rendering him motionless, Arthur simply looked at the man, then through the opened door into the room filled with cages.

"You can take as long as you want," Heracles told them and went to unlock the other rooms.

"Merci," Francis chuckled with some amusement as he saw the expression on his lover's face and held out an arm to usher him through, "Shall we?"

Speechless, Arthur went in, his partner following suit. He didn't get much further than the threshold, however, as he stopped to take in what was happening.

Metal barred containers lined three of the walls, stacked on top of one another, and ran the length of the small room. On the fourth wall was a board full of charts and pictures of the cat that filled the numerous cages, information showing their ages, weights and medical needs. Arthur stood there as all around him the room itself purred and mewed, some cats coming up to the front of their cages to rub their faces against the bars while others recoiled into corners.

"You have probably worked out what we are here for by now," Francis satirised as he stood beside the other, beaming excitedly.

"Francis, we can't," Arthur turned his head to look at him with disquieted eyes.

Not having expected this answer, the older man frowned.

"Why not?" he asked, afraid the gesture had been miscalculated.

"You can't just get an animal on a whim like this," Arthur argued, shaking his head, "It's completely irresponsible."

"It is not on a whim, amour, you told me weeks ago that you would like this, and I have been thinking about it since then," Francis contradicted him.

"You didn't tell me that, though. And neither of us have ever had a cat before, we don't know how to take care of one. Plus, do we even have time for a cat? We both work full time," the younger man agonized, his tendency to fret getting the better of him.

"Arthur," his partner gently interrupted, "Do you still want a cat?"

Hesitating before he spoke, Arthur said slowly, "Well, yes, but-"

"But why not?" the more impulsive of the pair was determined, "They really are not difficult to take care of, I used to cat sit for my aunt all the time, and I will work from home for a while if you are so concerned."

About ready to give in to his own desires, Arthur still stalled his agreement, anxiety outweighing want.

"We can talk about it some more and come back another time if you are really that worried, but I am glad that you brought the subject up," the other mused, "I had also been thinking about getting a pet."

He paused to catch the eyes that watched him with green curiosity.

"The house has seemed a little too quiet lately," he finished his thought.

The last part of him won over by the shared sentiment, Arthur looked away, letting out a sigh before surveying the room.

"Did you have anything particular in mind?" he gave himself over to what would make him happy.

Mouth splitting into a grin, Francis took his lover's hand.

"We are here to choose together," he stated warmly, walking them further into the room.

His naturally uptight tendencies eased, room was made within Arthur for a new mood, one that tickled pleasantly. The sensation quickly filled him, his fingertips tingling and his lips tilting upward. Pure, unadulterated joy took control of his body, lightening it, the strain and weight of the morning lifting.

The hand his fingers laced through released him and Francis bent down, squatting to look into a large cage on the bottom row where seven or eight tiny balls of fuzz scuttled about. Some of them trotted inquisitively up to meet the man that cooed in at them, impossibly small paws poking between the bars.

Leaving his partner to gush over the kittens under the watchful, yellow eyes of their mother, Arthur wandered in a circuitous route. The room they were in seemed to be dedicated mostly to younger animals, many of the containers large enough to fit a whole family. Some were occupied by only a trio or couple of tiny bodies and most of them were pinned with notes stating 'must be taken in pairs' in all capitals.

While his heart did utterly melt at the sound of their cries, he wasn't sold on the idea of raising a kitten. It was too much for a pair of first-time pet owners and he'd much rather have something more relaxed. Besides the practical reasoning for it, he would have preferred an older cat for the animal's sake. He knew most people came in looking for a kitten, something their children or their girlfriend would find cute, and that the older cats up for adoption often went overlooked.

"Shall we look around some more?" he suggested, nodding in the direction of the room across the hall.

"But they are so small," Francis crooned.

"Well, they do get bigger, you know," Arthur pointed out as his partner stood and they both went through to the next room.

A depressing sight to come across, as the room seemed to be populated by the sick and the aged. Every cage had some sort of a chart next to it with a multitude of prescriptions listed and not a sound came from inside. The milky, blind eyes of an old ginger tom with one of his ears half gnawed off turned to look at them as they entered, the expression of his gnarled mouth seeming to tell them of some bad omen, urging them to turn back.

"Bénisse les pauvres creatures," Francis uttered under his breath, "Let us leave them in peace."

He turned and headed towards another of the doors while Arthur stayed behind, pity restraining him. The tom cat remained a saggy sack of bones and mangey flesh in its basket, unreactive as Arthur approached, neither moving nor making a sound, simply accepting of whatever may happen to it. Looking back through the crosshatching, the cat blinked slowly, its eyes opening again to only a sliver as it seemed thoroughly disinterested in the world.

"Arthur," Francis called from the next room, to which Arthur only let out a sympathetic exhale, damning his sense of empathy as he went to join him.

Entering onto a far livelier scene, the older man instantly drew his attention to the cage he stood in front of.

"How about her?" he gestured to what must have been the fluffiest cat Arthur had ever seen, pure, white fur like a cloud with eyes and legs.

"Seems a little high maintenance, doesn't she?" he mentioned unsurely, "Imagine the mess."

"But she is so beautiful," Francis praised, the animal making a shrill trilling sound as though in response to the compliment.

"Francis, please, let's be sensible about this," Arthur insisted, knowing his partner's affinity for pretty things often got in the way of a wise decision.

A sound of vocalised acceptance came from the other. "You are right, I suppose," he considered and continued perusing.

The specimens they currently looked at seemed significantly healthier and much more sociable as Arthur browsed, coming to a cage where a small tabby rubbed its face up and down the grate, purring. A smile lighting his face at the sound, he arched a finger through the bars to scratch it on the scruff of the neck, the rumbling from its chest growing louder. A soft laugh blew from his nose as the cat continued its antics, flopping onto its side and stretching the whole of its body as though it were made of rubber.

Not wanting to get attached the first cat he saw though, Arthur scanned the rest of the room, animals of every shape and size surrounding him. A chunky, shorthaired tortious shell moggy, a black and white male with markings like a cow, a black cat that sat still as a statue, face angular, fur sleek like oil. He was spoiled for choice and felt a little bad that he was to choose out a life to own, resolving he wouldn't base his pick simply on aesthetics.

The older of the couple was distracted at the other end of the room as Arthur looped back to the doorway. He paused to wait for his partner, standing beside a cage that at first appeared empty, but proved otherwise when the slightest hint of movement registered in the corner of his vision. Crouching to get a clearer view of the dark corner from which he had detected it, he saw the outline of a furry shadow huddled amongst a pile of blankets. As quietly as he could, he waited, nose practically pressed up against the bars as he tried to catch a glimpse, intrigued by the only animal in the room that seemed to actively avoid attention while others yowled behind him.

It remained in hiding, but Arthur was patient, and after a minute or so of their standoff the smaller of the two lost its nerve. With a baying snarl it emerged, slinking on its stomach in a stealthy prowl and stopped once out in the open, calculating its next move. Its green eyes were opened so wide they almost protruded from its round face, pupils contracted into slits as they saw the intruder knelt beside its cage.

Realising his presence must have been rather intimidating to the creature that was a tenth of his size, Arthur shuffled back and was encouraged to see the cat's frightened stance relax slightly. It was smaller than the average house cat, white with patches of burnt ginger colouring and had the most unusual ears that folded down over themselves, like the ears on a Labrador. Fluffy tail still flicking irately, Arthur went for a closer look, kissing at the animal as he reached out a hand. At first the cat retracted but seemed to asses the situation and reached its neck forward to sniff at what it was offered, apparently taking this as a gesture of good will as it took a few cautious steps forward then sat.

Mirroring the animal, Arthur eased onto the floor and looked in on his new-found companion as it did the same. He could decipher no particular emotion from its feline features but felt that, perhaps, he was being judged in some way. It studied him, looked him directly in the eye in a way that he felt had to mean something and he knew he wouldn't be able to leave without it.

"What have you found?" Francis enquired, coming over to see what interested his partner so intensely.

He bent at the waist with his hands on his knees to see, reacting with the same fascination as the other.

"What unique ears," he admired, however, the feeling wasn't mutual as the cat immediately growled, its hackles rising.

Yet Arthur wasn't perturbed by the display of aggression. "I like this one," he murmured.

"Are you sure?" Francis frowned, understandably put off by the fact that it seemed to hate him.

Eyes still focused on the ones that almost matched his own, Arthur shrugged.

"We can look around some more if you want, it's not just my choice," he compromised, unwilling to admit his heart was thoroughly set.

Glancing from the animal in question to his lover's face, though, Francis recognised the expression there. One he could remember seeing in the depths of the poverty they had endured when passing by grand houses and posh restaurants and car show rooms. A face that expressed immediately repressed desires.

"Non, I like him too," he indulged the other's fancies, "he just needs a little love, I am sure."

Allowing himself an unbridled smile, Arthur looked up at his partner whose chest swelled at the sight.

He stayed put as Francis went to fetch the shelter's attendant and both returned before long, Heracles carrying a pet crate with him.

"You might want to stand back, she can be troublesome," he warned, flipping the latch to open the cage.

A struggle ensued, some hissing and swiping, but after a valiant fight the cat made it into the carrier.

"Was she a stray?" Francis gleaned from the creature's contempt for humans.

Heracles stood, somehow unscathed, and handed the carrier over to him. "No, she used to belong to an old lady who died, the family brought her here."

"Really?" Francis thought it odd that such an unruly animal had been a pet, as did Arthur.

"Some people she likes but most, not so much," Heracles was unable to explain, "We just need to fill in the paperwork and you can take her."

The three of them made it half way up the stairs before Francis was forced to stop and hand off the screaming box to his partner, the cat inside calming down only marginally when he took it. Giving a generous donation, as that was all that funded the place, the couple signed their names and left the building with a new family member. It was odd to think that a person could simply acquire a life like that, but Arthur was surprisingly unfazed by the responsibility. In fact, it seemed minor in comparison to most other things in his life. Caring for small, helpless things was rather his forte at that point.

"A Scottish Fold," Francis announced in the cab on their way home.

"What" Arthur looked up from the crate at the random statement.

"She is a Scottish Fold, that is her breed," Francis filled in whilst looking at his phone.

"Oh, right," the other nodded, only half listening.

"It is a breed of domestic cat with a natural dominant gene mutation that affects cartilage throughout the body, causing the ears to fold," he recited from the article he had found.

"Natural," Arthur scoffed, "After several decades of inbreeding, no doubt."

Tutting, Francis insisted on looking on the bright side. "Well, she seems healthy, which is the important thing."

"Of course," the more pessimistic of the pair replied as he looked in through the grate at the front of the crate, poking a finger through while their newly adopted pet cowered at the back of it.

She meowed loudly the entire way, a droning sound like an air siren, one that conveyed confusion and fear and made a person wish they could explain. They apologised profusely to the driver as they got out and went inside where Arthur took the carrier into the living room and set it down on the carpet.

"Welcome to your new home," Francis celebrated, prompting eagerly "Go on, let her out."

"Okay, just give her some space," a prickling in his chest, Arthur undid the door and moved backwards, both men waiting with bated breath for some sort of motion.

A few moments passed in which the cat showed no sign of shifting, still huddled in the far corner of her confines as though she sensed a trap, then a few more still until ten minutes of silence had passed.

"Do you think we should do something?" Francis grew impatient, "We could put some food down."

Thinking this may only cause her to believe she were being lured into an ambush even further, Arthur turned down the idea.

"She probably just needs some time."

The conversation ended there as both went back to watching quietly, their focused eyes surely not helping the situation, until a nose emerged. It sniffed the carpet, a foreign smell that caused it to draw back briefly before regaining courage and sticking out the rest of its bi-coloured face to scour the landscape. One white paw appeared, testing the ground then planting itself firmly, then another, and then she was gone, having leapt across the room in one swift bound to slither under the sofa.

"At least she is out," Francis joked dejectedly.

Exhaling some of the disappointment he felt stupid for feeling, Arthur knew he should have expected no less. It was his own fault for choosing the most feral cat in the entire shelter, God only knew why he insisted on taking the hardest rout for everything.

He hunched over on the floor, tilting his head sideways to squint under the furniture. Pressed up against the wall, as far out of reach as she could possibly be, she made herself as small as she could in hopes of avoiding detection, eyes reflecting the light, making her look wild.

"Poor thing," he empathised.

"Like you said, maybe some more time is needed," the older man did the same and received a violent hiss for his efforts.

Both men drew back and left the animal in peace, heading to the kitchen where Arthur's attention was drawn to the clock displaying it was still morning. His body disagreed with this after having been awake for a solid thirty hours at least and the stress of it was beginning to take a physical toll. Muscles aching, head swimming, pins and needles, nothing he wasn't used to.

"What's the time difference between here and Ohio again?" he thought aloud, failing at the simple maths required to work it out by himself.

"About five hours, I think," Francis recalled.

Nodding, Arthur struggled to figure out what time that would make his brother's landing and statistics of when he should contact him, his brain putting up a wall against such strenuous work.

The trouble he was having must have shown clearly on his face as Francis spoke in reply to what he was thinking.

"He said he would call when he landed, which should not be for another six hours or so, so please, stop making that face like your head is going to explode," he softly reprimanded.

Arthur caught his eye briefly then averted his own, directing them down at his hands on the table, picking at the skin around what was left of his nails. Clearing his throat, he changed the subject.

"I don't suppose you thought about any of this in advance, then. I mean, do we have anything for her to eat?" he underestimated his partner's abilities and was promptly proven wrong.

Expelling a short laugh, Francis went over to one of the cupboards under the sink. "You think so little of me, mon cher," he opened it to reveal several cans of cat food and a bag of pebbly looking stuff that could easily last the tiny creature several months.

"When did you plan all this?" Arthur was taken aback by the planning that must have been going on right under his nose and wondered how he had missed it.

"I decided on it about three weeks ago," Francis' lips quirked subtly, showing he was quite proud of his scheming, "I knew you would not look there."

It did seem he had thought it through, but Arthur noticed the one thing he had failed to consider.

"Did you get a litter tray?" he questioned.

"I thought she would just do it outside," the other assumed.

"If we let her out, I don't think we'll be seeing her again," Arthur sarcastically mentioned.

"You may have a point," Francis agreed, going out to the hall, "Alright, I will go and get one, you can stay here and see if you can get her out."

"Sure," Arthur doubted his ability to do so.

"And come up with a name, maybe," the older man drew attention to the fact that they hadn't even considered naming the animal yet.

"I really don't know, Francis, I haven't thought about it," Arthur refused the responsibility, following his partner into the hall.

"Well, do," Francis shrugged on his coat and opened the door, "See what you can come up with, there is no hurry. I will not be long."

With that the door closed behind him and Arthur was left with their unnamed occupant. Remaining in place a little while longer, needing to process everything that had happened to him before midday, he turned to go back to the living room.

He turned on the TV for background noise and stopped beside the sofa, under which a body shifted. Afraid that doing anything to try to coax or drive her out would only result in a worse situation, Arthur felt it best to leave her as she was, allow her to become acclimatised to her surroundings and do as she pleased.

He went back across the hall to the kitchen to rifled through the cupboards, finding a small, chipped bowl and a plate with the floral pattern half worn off that he set down close the doorway with food and water on offer. Hoping the smell of it might entice the cat from her hiding place, he was a little let down but not surprised to see not hind no hair of her. At least it was there for her when she needed it, he thought, and she could sneak out when they had both gone to bed. Perhaps a stepping stone for trust.

Drifting back through the hall once more, collecting the post that must have been sat there for several days by that point on his way, he set himself softly down on the sofa, mindful of what lurked beneath him. A couple of bank statements and one handwritten envelope amongst the pile, he started off with the most boring, skimming over the various payments and accounts, and discarded them to his side before moving on to the more interesting delivery.

The household usually only received two posted cards around that time of year, one from Arthur's cousins and one from Francis' parents, both of which were already perched up on the mantle and so the unidentified card caused trepidation, especially since Arthur didn't recognise the return address. Running through his mind for someone he may have forgotten as he tore open the flap, he came up blank and pulled the card out to quickly glance over the Christmassy scene printed on the front before looking inside.

Instantly wishing he hadn't, his forehead creased and his eyes widened in suspicious perplexity. Aside from the pre-written message of seasons greetings, all that was inside was a phone number and three words put down in unfamiliar block letters. 'Call me, Alistair.' The sentence seemed to shift the mood of the entire day. No longer was Arthur concerned about when Alfred would call or what to call his pet, all that consumed his thoughts was what the hell could the man he hadn't spoken to in more than four years want.

Seeing as they had only one thing in common, that being their unfortunate parentage, he predicted that most likely had something to do with it. That was the only reason he ever barged his way into his life and so it was fair to assume as much. A harsh expulsion of air left his nose as he closed the card, directing his gaze aside, offended by the existence of a person he barely knew, then looked back at the command.

He didn't know how the very idea of a person could irritate him, but the thought of his half-brother made something in him boil. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a rude reminder that Arthur hadn't sprung into existence out of immaculate conception, as he liked to believe. The fact that there was another side to his lineage, one that he did not care for or that seemed to care too much for him, not that that was a bad thing. It disturbed him, in a way. He liked to think himself a family-oriented person, yet Alistair was technically family and he felt nothing but contempt for him. The same went for the cause of their relation, his father, although he refused to think about him under such a title.

Unable to think about the situation with any clarity, an uneasy tightness constricted Arthur's mind, squeezing it, and he tossed the card onto the coffee table. Drawing his legs up onto the sofa, he curled in on himself, shifting back into the corner of the cushions as though trying to hide amongst them, hide from the decision he was being forced to make. He picked at the dry skin on his lips as he stared at it, no explicit thoughts crossing his mind but the hazy consideration of what to do looming in the back of his head where it stuck fast.

Adjusting his body again, Arthur rested his head against the armrest, watching whatever the TV played without taking it in, the obstinate problem he had just come across proving unshakable. He sighed, a miserable sound this time, one bereft of the energy it took to care about the world and hugged one of the decorative pillows against himself. Face squished against the rough fabric of the tattered couch, he let his eyes slip closed, meaning only to dispel the dryness of them but found it a chore to open them again.

Half cracked, he peered through the parting of his eyelids, disinterested. The highs and lows of the day seemed utterly unpredictable and he simply didn't posses the motivation to deal with them. Any anticipation over speaking to Alfred later on or dread of the other phone call he had not yet decided he would make, any feeling he had towards the tiny body that resided underneath where he lay was too much effort. Curling tighter into a ball, he let sleep take hold.

It was growing dark when he woke, the house still empty, and he checked the time on his phone. A message notification caused a flicker of joy that was swiftly quashed when he saw the name attached to it, showing it was his partner rather than the younger man he hoped to hear from. Going by the time, Alfred should have been landing soon, maybe had already and was too busy to call just yet. Either way, the wait continued.

Opening the message, he learned the reason Francis still hadn't returned. Apparently, he had run into Feliks and the pair had gone to coffee together, the reassurance of this being a quick detour a short-sighted claim. He was about to send a reply but felt it would be somewhat redundant seeing as he had received it several hours ago and so turned off the screen and continued to lay in his splayed position. One arm tucked under his head as a pillow, the other still held the embellished cushion and he ran a fingertip over the embroidered pattern.

The olive green on brown suede material was about as far from his taste in décor as a person could get but they hadn't been his choice. One of Francis' attempts to make the dreary house more characterful. A gesture that went unappreciated as Arthur made clear how ghastly he found them. That being said, he did enjoy the texture, it was pleasant to run his palms over. A loose strand hung from the stitching along the seam and he tugged at it, more coming undone. Twisting it around his hand he snapped it off to prevent more from unwinding itself and dropped the thread to the floor.

A flash of white darted from the shadows beneath the sofa, Arthur's eyes snapping to it on instinct. Claws sunk into the string, the vicious paw clenched around its inanimate prey and a muzzle of bared teeth clamped its jaws on for the decisive blow. However, the frayed fibres were a poor substitute for a hunk of meat, and she released her hold again, shaking her head and licking her whiskered cheeks. At the sound of Arthur's subdued chuckle, her head turned sharply. Her skittishness having been forgotten in her predatory focus she now remembered she was the vulnerable one and quickly scampered back to safety, leaving the string where it lay.

Arthur waited a moment, seeing whether she might emerge again and when she didn't, leant down to reclaim the piece of thread. Drawing himself up in a ball so as his presence wasn't obvious enough to frighten her away again, he dangled the string over the edge of the sofa, the end of it just grazing the carpet, and waggled it up and down. The silken thread danced in the dim light, its movement like a mouse's tail, and sure enough was tempting enough that a set of snowy paws pounced, pinning it down.

Stifling the grin that itched to stretch over his face, Arthur stopped moving his hand, the string going still as the cat bit at it and waited for her to lose some interest before pulling it from her grasp. As he had hoped, she chased after it immediately, intent on killing the thing, fully exposed with claws extended and dedicated the hunt. He dragged the string along the ground for her to stalk then whipped it away as soon as she struck, held it aloft so that she leapt, spun it in circles which she comically ran in until too muddled to continue.

Enjoying their game as much as she seemed to, the larger of the two creatures eventually let her win, thinking it cruel to toy with her much longer. Delightedly claiming her reward as he released the other end of the string, she covered it with her body, as he had seen lions do on documentaries, and began shredding it with her teeth. Hunched over her prize faced away from him, Arthur saw an opportunity, one he questioned whether it was wise to take but did so, reaching out a hand to gently, barely stroke a knuckle over the carrot coloured fur on her back.

He felt her immediately stiffen, yet she didn't flee or withdraw from his touch. Repeating the action, she remained, allowing him to do so again until he felt her relax a little. With his roughened fingertips, Arthur scratched the same spot, warmth filling him as the small body began to vibrate, the crackling sound of a long unused purr like honey in the air.

Oval face turning to meet his elated smile, Arthur took the chance of this new-found trust to reach over and pet her behind one of her creased ears. Pushing her head into the affection, the sound of satisfaction that echoed from her chest increased and Arthur gladly obliged to the hint, cupping a hand over her head to stroke her the length of her back. Although he didn't want to push the boundaries of their developing friendship, the need to squeeze the darling creature was too much to bare and he went to try and pick her up.

The arrival of his other half, however, cut through the moment. Her brightly virid eyes snapped to the door and she disappeared once again.

"Sorry that took so long, but you know what Feliks is like," Francis griped good naturedly as he hung up his coat and appeared in the doorway, "I love the man but, mon dieu, how he gossips."

"Hm," was all Arthur replied with, looking sadly at the place his new friend had been.

"She has not come out yet?" the other posed.

He took the plastic litter tray he had bought into the kitchen and set it down next to where Arthur had set out the two bowls, filling it with a grey, sandy looking substance.

"Actually, she let me pet her," Arthur countered, following him.

Francis' face showed he hadn't expected as much and he questioned, "Really?"

Arthur nodded.

"You have always had a way with animals," he commended, "What about a name? Any thoughts?"

Folding his arms and leaning against the wall, realising that sleep hadn't helped the lethargy he had felt earlier, the smaller man was still at a lost.

"I have no idea," he groaned, "You know, I don't think cats even recognise their own names."

"Well we cannot call her 'Cat'," Francis objected, going to the front room to try and catch a glimpse of the illusive animal, "That will not do for our little princess."

Reminded of a fact he had learned years ago, Arthur had a thought.

"How about Queenie," he put forward.

"Queenie?" Francis repeated, testing how the name felt to say.

"A female cat is called a queen," Arthur explained, finding that somehow it seemed to fit, the look on his partner's features hinting at the same.

"I like it," the other approved with a smile and addressed the sofa, "What do you think of that, ah? Would you like that name?"

Amused by his lover's jesting, Arthur looked fondly upon him.

"I'm glad you surprised me," he thanked in his own way, the other clearly pleased by this as he sent the same look back.

His expression morphed slightly, though, into one of inquisitivity.

"Who is this from?" he noticed the card laying flat on the table and picked it up.

Arthur had no need to answer him and simply watched as he opened the card, his brow folding in on itself.

"Oh," he vocalised his mixed feelings, "What does he need from you?"

"I don't know any more than you do," Arthur shrugged.

"You have not called him yet?" Francis looked over to his other half, noticing the way his arms were folded tightly and his shoulders hunched, who shook his head. "Why do you look so suspicious about it, perhaps it is something good."

"Yeah, maybe the old bastard has finally died," the other sneered, referring to his paternal parent.

"Do not be wicked, you do not mean that," Francis was scornful of his callousness but knew to anticipate as much as the topic managed to bring out a defensiveness in Arthur. "He could be getting married, or something," he enthused a brighter possibility.

"Sure," Arthur balked at the thought, "or maybe he's being crowned Prince of Wales."

Lips pressed into an unimpressed line, Francis reacted calmly.

"You have not spoken to him in years, you do not know what is going on in his life," he made a logical argument but saw the other wasn't listening, "You will not know unless you call him."

Lifting his shoulders to drop them heavily again, Arthur was resistant, half not wanting to know what caused this unprecedented contact, half not caring.

"I might. I don't really want to think about it right now," he urged to change the subject.

Francis's eyes showed he was thinking but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the buzzing of Arthur's phone. Pulling it from his pocket, his heart jumped.

"It's Alfred," he exclaimed a little louder than he had meant to.

Both men hurriedly forgot what they had been talking about and sat close together on the sofa. Tapping the cracked screen, the younger man's face popped up, his toothy grin a beam of radiating, white light.

"Howdy from the states, y'all!" he burst out in an accentuated southern drawl.

"It is so good to see your face, mon cherie! How are you? How was the flight? You must be exhausted," Francis wittered, getting carried away as he as one to do.

"I'm fine, it all went fine. I slept on the plane so I'm feeling pretty great," Alfred's voice bubbled, "What about you guys? Miss me yet?"

"Where are you right now?" Arthur glazed over the question to ask one himself, noting the background seemed not to be either an airport or a school.

"Oh, we're hanging out at the bus station. Still waiting on some other people to arrive and then they're going to take us to the campus," the other went through.

"We?" Francis reiterated the use of the plural term and jokingly remarked, "You have made friends already?"

Glancing behind himself then back to the screen, Alfred chuckled. "Yeah, I'm just chilling with the other guys that are here for try-outs, they all seem cool." His social skills never failed to amaze.

"You shouldn't make friends with the enemy," Arthur teased, "They are your competition, you know."

Laughing at his brother's exaggeration, Alfred was unconcerned. "It's just sports," he downplayed.

"I do hope you're going to take this seriously, though, and that you won't be going to parties the night before a training day or skipping out to go sightseeing, or anything," Arthur harnessed the power of his most parental tone to lecture.

Eyes rolling in his head, the younger sibling didn't need to be told.

"I'll have plenty of time for that when I get the spot," he cockily guaranteed.

"I like the confidence," Francis motivated.

"Hey, Francis," Alfred addressed the older man directly, raising an eyebrow, "Did you do the thing?"

Taking the phone from his partner, Francis directed the camera under the sofa for Alfred to see 'the thing' in question.

"There she is," he smiled, the other awing down the line.

"Wait, you knew he was planning this?" Arthur realised, taking his phone back to scowl at his brother.

"He told me he was thinking about it a couple of weeks ago," he confirmed, "I tried to convince him a dog would be more fun, but he wouldn't listen."

"How am I always the last to know things," the older Kirkland complained.

"Because it would be no fun if you knew," Francis stated sweetly, pecking his lover's cheek.

Over the phone, the sound of a loud speaker announcement resounded, and Alfred listened in.

"Sorry, guys, I got to go, sounds like we're leaving," he cut their conversation short.

"That's alright, text us when you're on campus, okay?" Arthur pressed, "And call your brother when you can."

"Sure, okay, I have to go, we can talk tomorrow," Alfred began walking, glancing between his phone and something else distractedly.

"Have a good night's rest," Francis bid him, "Tell us everything tomorrow."

The screen exited their chat as Alfred hung up. Hollowness left by his absence was tangible in the air of the room, and the knowledge that he would return soon did little to help in the moment.

"I will get started on dinner," the older man announced after a while and went through to the kitchen.

Left alone, Arthur tried again to draw Queenie from her lair, succeeding momentarily until Francis inadvertently ruined it again. They spent the evening trying to achieve what Arthur had managed alone earlier with Francis but had little success. The closest they came was to lure her as far as the coffee table while Francis stood out in the hallway, a step in the right direction but the smallest step imaginable. Admitting defeat, the pair went to bed, the length of the day having caught up to them.

Had Arthur been able to shut down his internal organs at will he would have done at the thought of working the next day and he actually set his alarm a half hour later than he normally would have, something he thanked his past self for when he woke to the offensive noise. Marginally less dead than he might have been without the extra thirty minutes rest, he got up and readied himself. His actions weren't deliberately slow, but he made no effort to rush, no longer caring that his day was starting later and later, wilfully throwing away his mornings. He had never liked them in the first place.

Checking the bowl on the kitchen floor, he saw that the food had been touched and when he poked his head cautiously around the living room door, he was happy to find Queenie had migrated from under the couch to on top of it. Her delicate chest rose and fell evenly, showing she was still asleep, and Arthur left her that way, exiting into the drizzly morning.

People no longer whispered about him when he turned up to work late, his antics not as entertaining as they used to be, or perhaps they had found some new scandal to sink their fangs into. Either way, he made his way to his desk undisturbed and began flipping through the new files that had been dropped off while his computer booted up.

The home screen it displayed was a distraction. Joy filled faces of almost a decade past ate at him, the background of a pebbled shoreline so vivid in his memory he could still smell it. Had he licked his lips he was sure he'd have tasted the salt of the white peaked waves he saw so clearly in his mind's eye. The briny flavour turned bitter, however, when the thought of that man broke into his thoughts the same way he had done during the summer of the picture's taking, as he had done the day before.

That was the year he and his mother had learned of his half-brother's existence. Nineteen at the time, although he had looked far older, a backpack slung over his shoulder and an address in his hands, he had turned up at their door in search of the father they shared. Arthur still wasn't sure how or why he had come looking for them but his mother, ever the charitable soul, had of course welcomed him into their lives. He had ended up staying a little more than a month, looking around the local area for the man that was nowhere within a ten-mile radius, then vanished back to Glasgow.

While Arthur hadn't gotten on with him, his feelings never having softened, his mother had taken pity on the boy. He had expressed that his home life wasn't exactly ideal and that had been enough for her to pledge herself to him as a source of support, as she did for every cause that stirred the slightest feeling in her. The memory of it flared in Arthur, a burning sensation in his rib cage. Resentment.

Clicking the screen to rid it of the picture, he rejected the emotion, unable to affiliate any negative emotion with the sainted woman. Guilty over even the idea of the thought of it, he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. Nothing good ever came from contact with Alistair, he knew this from experience. Despite his problems with the unruly man, Alfred and Matthew quite liked him, looked up to him in the way that children do to extravagant strangers, and Francis played peacemaker, always wanting everyone to get along.

Aggravation was all Arthur ever seemed to receive for his efforts, though, and Alistair always left on a sour note. Francis' argument of things being better as they were both older was less effective each time, and he wondered why he allowed himself to be convinced when he knew how it would end. He thought that, at least, but he knew why.

His mother had loved the man, for reasons he could not fathom, and out of some unspoken promise this meant he was duty-bound to her wishes. In the same way that he had to donate to the church funds each year and felt compelled to put a few coins in every charity box he passed at Christmas time, he would call Alistair. He had to. It was just working up the motivation to do so, and to deal with the fallout that would follow, that he needed.

Another deep breath passed through his system as he stared down at his desktop. Whether it was good or bad news he was to receive, he doubted it would have a massive effect on his life and the moderate comfort of apathy eased his mind. Casting his eyes over the papers he had been left, he remained preoccupied, half of his brain still brooding over the various troubles that haunted his waking life.

He began to sign off on things: promotions, transfers, budgets. Occasionally glancing up at his screen, he saw his backlog of emails had stopped increasing in tens by the day, probably because he had started doing what they asked of him, and a mild sense of relief settled in him at the small victory. The pleasant feeling soon turned to ice, though, when he looked over to see a new message come up from one Ludwig Beilschmidt asking him to stop by his office when he had the time.

The words sounding like the last rights of a dead man walking as he read them in his head, his innards sank. However, he wasn't resistant of his fate, it was inevitable after all. He had been working on borrowed time from the moment he started at the company. In all honesty he had no idea how he had been hired in the first place. No qualifications, no experience working in an office, barely a passing grade in most of his exams, they must have taken him out of desperation alone. In fact, he was pretty sure that Ludwig, who had gone straight from business college to working there, must have convinced someone to take him on out of pity. So really, it seemed fair he should be the one to fire him.

Supposing there was no point in delaying what had been a long time coming any further, Arthur stood, more than ready to face the consequences of his actions.

The office was empty by comparison to the Friday passed, fingers quietly tapping at keyboards, hallways vacant of life as he made his way to the lifts. Ludwig's office was a couple of floors above Arthur's as he was several positions higher, apparently the CEO had never learned that metaphors were meant to be subtle, yet the subordinate man found he didn't feel uncomfortable wandering through foreign, open waters.

As opposed to the lower levels, which had an open floor plan and only a few private rooms for the unit overseers, the elevator doors opened onto a waiting area, some itchy looking chairs and a small table set out in the corner, beyond which was a wide hallway lined with doors. He may not have known the upper levels well, but Arthur knew the door number he was looking for and so progressed down the well-lit corridor, a certain confidence to his strides, to the bronze plaque with the corresponding digits.

Knocking, he received an immediate response.

"Come in," the harsh tone sounded from inside and Arthur obliged, seemingly to the rooms occupant's surprise. "Ah, good morning, Arthur. You saw my message then. I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"I had nothing else urgent to do, I thought I wouldn't keep you waiting. I can come back later if you'd prefer," the older man offered.

Shuffling the papers on his desk into a neat pile, Ludwig shook his head.

"Now is convenient. Please, sit down," he beckoned.

Arthur did so, self-assuredness born of indifference nullifying any anxiety he should have felt.

"So, I will be blunt with you," the younger man prefaced as though he was ever anything but, "your performance over the last few months has not been good."

Bobbing his head, doing his best to look like he cared, Arthur hummed.

"However, more recently there has been an impressive spike in your productivity," Ludwig continued, "Which has produced some of the best figures your department has seen in several years. As a result, I have decided you are the best candidate to put forward for the department manager position."

"I'm sorry, what?" Arthur blinked, baffled by the turn of events.

"After last weeks meetings, the head office has asked for a change. There will be a lot of movement in the coming months but I would like to keep you working with your division for now and I think you have shown the ability to be a strong leader," the other watched him, face deadpanned, his hands folded before him, "The pay rise isn't notable, I'll admit, but it is a promotion. Do you accept?"

"No," the word came out a perplexed laugh as Arthur frowned. Upon regaining himself from the slip, however, he looked to the steely blue eyes across from him, finding no humour there. "Wait, you mean that?" he checked disbelievingly.

"I am very serious, Arthur," Ludwig asserted, "You have been here for four years, now, that makes you senior to most of the people you currently work with. Like I said, the pay doesn't offer much but the position holds more authority and therefore more credit."

And more hours, more late nights, more weekends, more stress, Arthur mentally added to the list.

"I'm sorry, I…I really don't think I can take it," he shook his head, an odd smile adorning his face, one of amused bewilderment.

Just as puzzled, Ludwig echoed what the other had said a few moments before.

"Are you sure you want to turn this down? I have other applicants in mind, but you were my first choice," his persona of office superior slipped just slightly for the briefest second in a way that made him seem like someone trying to do a friend a favour. It made Arthur feel bad.

"I appreciate that, really I do, I just don't think that I could live up to the expectations of the role right now," he covered, sending an apologetic look across the desk, "I'm sorry, really. Thank you for considering me."

A pause then Ludwig nodded once, lips tightening into a line as he considered what was said.

"There's no need to apologise, I understand," the diplomatic man accepted.

Sensing the moment to leave, Arthur stood with a similarly awkward expression and tucked his chair under the desktop.

"You know, if you're looking for people to be promoted, perhaps you should consider Erika," he recommended as he made his way over to the door, "Have a nice day."

He let himself out and walked back to the lift in a daze, turning his subverted expectations over in his head. Stepping inside the box, his forehead furrowed while his lips turned up at the corners. A snorted breath came from his nose and he raised a hand to his mouth to supress his laughter, but another forced its way through as he snickered to himself. He wasn't sure why he found it as funny as he did but the fact that doing what he was meant to warranted him a promotion was just ridiculous to him. Had he not seen the comedic value in the situation he may even have been disappointed he hadn't been fired.

Back on his own level he quashed the bubbling amusement, lips twitching as they fought to release it as he sped back to his office, but he managed to contain it until behind his closed door where he allowed it to spill free. Laughing at his desk as he sifted through emails, his lifted spirits stayed that way through the rest of the day, remaining with him on his commute home and still tickling his insides as he opened the front door.

"Bonsoir, amour, I am in here," Francis acknowledged his entrance from the kitchen.

Arthur followed his voice and went in to find him sat set up with his work equipment at the table. He had agreed to stay home and watch their new resident for the week.

"How was she today?" he stood behind his partner to see what he was working on, a woman in white on a flowery background smiling at him from the screen.

"Well, she has not hissed at me since about one o'clock and she came in to eat a few times," Francis turned in his seat to speak to his other half, "So that is good, would you not say?"

"It's an improvement," Arthur nodded.

Still looking at the picture on the laptop, Arthur didn't notice he was being watched with questioning eyes.

"What are you smiling about?" Francis questioned the subtle upturn of the other's mouth, beginning to mirror the expression himself.

Not having realised he was smiling, Arthur caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective screen and saw what this other half referred to, that inexplicable tingle flaring.

"I was offered a promotion today," he told him.

Face brightening, second hand excitement caused Francis to prematurely congratulate him.

"Oh, Arthur that is wonderful," he applauded.

"I didn't take it," he put bluntly.

Confusion registered on the others features and he cocked his head. "Why not?"

"I really didn't want it," his voice lilted with levity.

"Why is that funny?" Francis didn't understand the joke, however, neither did Arthur.

"I don't know," his laughter came out in full.

Pausing a moment, at a loss of what was going on, Francis couldn't help but join in.

"I suppose that makes sense," he raised an eyebrow as their fit died down, "If you are sure you did not want it."

"I just couldn't entertain the idea of it," Arthur postulated, "I don't know why."

"Because you despise your job?" Francis sardonically drawled.

"Could be," the other jested in return, "Have you heard from Alfred yet?"

Guilt twisted the older man's lips. "He called earlier. I told him to wait until you were home, but he is busy."

A little put out by this, Arthur shook his head. "It's fine, he's been texting me," he pardoned the exclusion, "I'll speak to him tomorrow."

"Ah, yes, and Mattieu will be coming over as well," Francis informed.

Pleased by this, the other hummed shortly then left his partner to get on with his work.

Curled up in much the same position she had been as he had left that morning, Queenie raised her head from where it lay rested on her forelegs as he entered, her pear green eyes alert like she expected him to be the man she had not yet come to trust. Upon seeing it was the other human, though, she settled back down, eyelids closing as she allowed the man she deemed trustworthy to sit beside her.

Scratching her atop her head with his bitten nails, his other hand held open a book he used to pass the time, his attention kept on the page until the head he petted bumped gently into his thigh. Arthur glanced down at the little face that looked up at him expectantly.

"Yes?" he spoke to her like he would a person and was dealt another headbutt in reply.

Thinking the animal wanted more space, he uncrossed his legs to move over but found instead that was what she had been signalling for as she stepped carefully over his lap and placed herself on his other side, body pressed up against his leg.

"You're a funny thing," he chuckled, stroking her downy coat as they settled in for the night.

Work was nothing to complain about the next day, especially as he went in late and left early without doing much in between. Word must have made it around the office that he had been called upstairs as his presence had gone back to garnering intrigue, colleagues popping their heads out of cubicles like moles out of the earth to catch onto the chain of gossip after he had passed. Hearing snippets of it, he couldn't help but snigger. The things people came up with. To say he had never partaken in gossip would be a lie, but he could say with some certainty that he had never been so naïve as to actually believe what he was told.

The weather had gone back to bitterly freezing to signify that January would soon be upon them, bringing with it the promise of a new year and the crushing realisation that things never changed but Arthur wouldn't let himself dwell on the thought, his mind focused on getting out of the elements. He practically burst through the door with a gust of ice and was immediately called through to the living room.

"Arthur, Alfred is on the line," Francis prompted him to hurry through, still removing his coat as his face stung.

"Hey man, sorry I keep missing you, my schedule is packed," Alfred apologised over the skype call, "How you been?"

"Good, good, but I'm more interested in you, what have you been doing?" Arthur was eager to get to the point, wanting to make the most of their contact time.

"A lot," the younger man sighed, running a hand through his damp hair, appearing fresh from the shower, "Practice every morning, nine till twelve, then again from two until five. Plus, the rest of the team goes to the gym in the evenings and I don't want to look like I can't handle it, so I go with them."

"I hope you're not overdoing it," Arthur's concern came through on his face as well as his words as he could tell how exhausted his brother was from the way he sat hunched over, shoulders sagging.

"No, I mean, I am pretty tired, but like, in a good way," the other tried to explain, a smile on his face despite the bags under his eyes, "Like, I really feel like I'm pushing myself further than ever, and I'm improving."

"As long as you're taking care of yourself," the older sibling fretted softly.

Shaking his head at his former guardian's clucking, Alfred addressed the other two family members.

"Matt, can't you be the reckless one for once and break your leg or something so that he stops worrying about me?" he joked darkly.

"I'll get right on that," was the younger twin's dry reply.

A disturbance from off camera caught Alfred's attention and a muffled voice spoke to him, halting their conversation.

"Sure, sure," he spoke to the someone offscreen then turned back to his family, "Alright, I'm about to go get lunch before I have to be back on the field."

"You are eating well, yes? Not just junk food?" Francis badgered him.

"Um, I had an apple yesterday," Alfred seemed to think that sufficed while Francis disparaged quietly.

"Have a good time then," Arthur bid a curt farewell, glad he had been able to see the other but disappointed it had been so fleeting.

"Yeah, I'll see you," he responded to the group in general and was gone.

"He seems he hardly has time to breath," Francis commented, closing the laptop and exiting into the kitchen to check on their food.

Arthur made a sound of assent as he looked over to his other brother whom he had yet to greet properly and smiled when he saw Queenie at his side.

"She took a liking to you then," he observed.

"She was just hanging out and she let me come over and pet her," Matthew showed the same expression back, "She's so adorable, I love her."

Reaching over to give her head a pat, the older man turned his attention to his present sibling.

"So, how have you been?"

"Not bad, just getting through school work and stuff. Enjoying the peace while it lasts," he jibed at his twin's expense, "Oh, actually, would you mind doing me a favour?"

"Course not," Arthur watched as he reached into his rucksack and pulled out a document contained in a plastic sheet.

"It's just my resume, could you check it for me?" he held it out.

Sliding the sheet from it's protective cover, Arthur scanned it for errors. For someone of his age it was a rather impressive work history, both of his brothers having taken up what they could find once they turned sixteen in order to help with the house finances in any way they could.

"Looks good, what are you applying for?" Arthur enquired, handing it back.

Matthew tucked it away again and adjusted his glasses.

"Well, you know that old music shop you used to go to?" he paused, and Arthur nodded as he recalled the state it had been in last he saw it, "There's a new book store opening up there. I don't know if they're looking for anyone, but it's worth a shot."

"Definitely," the other encouraged.

A book shop seemed the right fit for the area, in-keeping with the rest of the quaint line-up. His mother would have loved it, he couldn't help but think.

He was called through to help his significant other with setting the table before he could allow the melancholic hypotheticals to take hold, however, and a substantial amount of food was set out, Francis apparently not having accounted for the absence of one. They chatted over the meal, Queenie eating along with them over in the corner, having come to terms with Francis' insistence on staying, and the missing member of their group was felt in not only the abundance of leftovers but the subdued conversation that lacked his animated input.

The older two men cleared the table and set about washing up, leaving the youngest of the family sat alone, looking rather lonely without his counterpart.

"I meant to ask, have you spoken to Alistair yet?" Francis brought up casually as he wiped down the counters.

Shooting a glance over, Arthur bristled at the question.

"Not yet," he said shortly.

"You are going to though, yes?" the other emphasised.

Again, Arthur looked over. "Yes, Francis," he sounded exasperated over the subject already.

"You're talking to Alistair again?" Matthew joined the discussion, curious at the mention of a name he hadn't heard in some time.

"He sent a card telling your brother to call him and he has not yet," Francis regaled and turned to his other half, "If you do not, then I will."

"I said I would, I'm going to," Arthur snapped tersely, immediately looking away, cheeks becoming pink at having lashed out so quickly.

"Alright, I believe you," the older man backed off, everything going quiet for a beat before Arthur, for some unknown reason, saw the need to carry on.

"Why are you so insistent that I speak to him, anyhow?" he demanded.

Shrugging, Francis put simply, "You are family."

"We're not family, we're just related," the other rejected indignantly.

"Does that not count for something?" the elder of the couple urged.

Arthur said nothing, an unpleasant sensation, like bile, rising in his throat as he contained his irritation.

"Either way, is has been almost half a decade since you last saw him, he must be almost thirty by now. Surely, he is not the same person you had a problem with all that time ago," Francis' assurance that people changed did little to help his argument.

"I don't really care what he's like now, I don't particularly want to find out, why are you defending him when you barely know him?" Arthur's tone was harsh, he felt he wasn't being listened to. It was the same exchange they had every time Alistair was brought into the picture and their stances never changed.

"Uh, guys…" a voice in the background uttered but was drowned out by the escalating discourse.

"I know him as well as you do and I do not think it is right to demonize a person like you do to him," Francis condemned.

"I don't demonize him, we just don't get on. Is it not okay for me to think that?" the other exacerbated rhetorically.

Eyes rolling somewhat melodramatically, the slightly more level headed of the two enunciated his words with forced composure.

"I am not telling you what to think, I-,"

"You are, though," Arthur countered, both men again ignoring the soft plea to stop coming from the other occupant of the room.

"I am giving you my opinion," Francis reiterated in the same manner as before.

"In a way that shows you think I am wrong," Arthur mimicked his tone.

A hard sigh came from the older man, his jawline tensing, clearly in a state of frustration that he was unwilling to show.

"Have you ever thought that you do not get on because you are so resistant to him? Perhaps if you tried to make an effort you would find you are…Matthew?" he stopped himself mid-sentence and looked beyond his sparring partner, prompting Arthur to look behind himself.

The boy he addressed appeared not to hear him, staring blankly at the floor as his chest rose and fell rapidly.

"Mattieu, what is wrong?" Francis repeated his name, worry tinging his voice, to no response.

"Matt," Arthur tried to the same result, "Matty?"

He moved over, his encroaching presence seeming to alert something in the younger man as his head snapped up, wide eyes blinking erratically.

"Y-yeah," he stuttered, jaw quivering.

"What is the matter, mon cherie?" Francis came over behind his partner, troubled eyes looking directly into the unfocused ones of the fraught man that flit between his two parental figures.

"Nothing, I just, I, nothing," his words stuck in his throat and tumbled from his mouth too fast.

His usually pale face had been further drained of colour and the look upon it, a look of fear, fear of the moment he was living in, was one that Arthur recognised with heart-breaking familiarity. It was one he had seen in mirrors while held in the clutches of panic or anger. Hauntingly perfect in its portrayal of confused terror, like the face of a man that had jumped from a building only to change his mind as his feet left the safety of solid ground. It hurt to realise he knew the feeling.

He crouched in front of his brother to look at that face, challenging what lurked behind it.

"It's okay Matthew, you're okay, you can breathe," he took on the softest tone he could, placing a hand on his knee to reconnect him with the world outside of his head.

Despite having no clue how to help himself in the same situation, his words seemed to get through as Matthew turned his attention only to his sibling, eyes beseeching him.

"I'm sorry, I know you hate when people argue and we should know better than to do that in front of you, but there's nothing to be afraid of, I swear. Just let it pass," he looked between the eyes that had latched onto him, hoping he was conveying some sort of reassurance, "It'll go away."

Francis, having sensed he should stay out of the way, watched on nervously as Matthew concentrated on regaining control of his body and mind, Arthur doing his best to be of comfort, softly muttered phrases slowly coaxing him down from the heights of anxiety.

A tense while later the room was quiet, free from the sound of hastened panting, as the three of them remained still. Arthur, still knelt on the floor, let his hand slide from where it cupped his brother's knee, and studied his changed expression closely.

"Are you okay?" he asked, testing whether he could get a coherent response rather than whether he was actually alright.

"Yeah, thank you," he was happy to hear returned, albeit shakily.

With a wrought sigh, Arthur shifted from his spot and eased up into the chair next to Matthew.

"So," he opened the dialogue, "When did this start happening?"

It probably wasn't the time to ask and he was aware of that, but he was unable to do nothing.

Glancing over then back down into his lap, Matthew fiddled with the fabric of his sleeves, pulling them down to cover his hands.

"When I started college," he admitted, "Not right away, though. Maybe at the end of my first year."

His honesty seemed a struggle, so Arthur didn't press him, but Francis was lost as to what was going on.

"What started, exactly?" he interjected.

Directing his bespectacled gaze to the older man, a dejected smile skewed his lips.

"It's an anxiety disorder," he clarified, receiving a solicitous expression, "But it's really not as bad as it looks," he felt the need to add.

"It doesn't matter how it looks, how bad is it? Does this happen often?" Arthur implored.

Matthew shook his head, his golden waves bouncing about. "Not anymore," his hushed voice betrayed no trace of a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth.

"Anymore?" Arthur wanted to hear what he was keeping back.

He looked about to resist, raising a hand to his mouth to run the material of his sweater over his lips, but he talked on.

"I guess when it first started happening it was sort of bad. It would happen once a week, maybe twice, not for any reason but then I went to my school councillor and it got a lot better."

"Are you still seeing them? Does Alfred know about this?" Francis' mixed feelings got the better of him as he began to question rapidly.

"I only go when I think I need to now, it's nowhere near as bad anymore," the younger man took his queries without hesitation, unfazed by sharing his feelings, "And Alfred…yeah he knows but it's not like we talk about it a lot or anything. He just knows that sometimes I need space."

Sighing, Francis groaned what both older men were thinking.

"Why did you not tell us, cherie?"

Guilt resting on his features, the younger man removed his glasses to rub his eyes then replaced them.

"I guess I felt like I didn't need to, you know? I learned to handle it and…I don't know, I should have told you, I'm sorry."

"That doesn't matter, we know now," Arthur refused to see him beat himself up over such a thought.

"Oui, that is what is important," Francis joined him.

Bobbing his head tiredly in agreement, the other looked thoroughly drained by the experience.

"Did you maybe want to stay here tonight?" Francis noticed this.

"If you don't mind," Matthew appreciated, the older man sending him a warm smile as he stood, coming over to hold the younger man's face in his hands and plant a kiss atop his head before going to set up the sofa.

The two brothers left together, Matthew turned to the older man to offer another of his doleful smiles.

Returning a similar one, Arthur got up to go and help his partner but not before restating one more time, "You know you can tell us anything, don't you?"

"I know," he heard back.

After setting out the spare sheets over the sofa, the couple left Matthew to himself and went upstairs to bed. Even though it wasn't late, the stress of everything appeared to have gotten to everyone as both older men were sapped of energy by the time they reached their room.

Tossing his phone onto the bed, Arthur began stripping off his work clothes, replacing them with a t-shirt and baggy pyjama bottoms while Francis let his jeans fall to the floor and slid under the covers. The silence of the house reflected the sobered mood of its occupants and, in retrospect, the entire evening felt somehow predestined.

"I'm sorry I got angry at you," Arthur turned and apologised to the other who looked back like he hadn't been expecting such a sentiment, "I don't know why I got angry I just, I knew I was going to call him but I didn't like you telling me I needed to, I suppose."

An idiotic sounding explanation when said out loud, but it was God's honest truth and it startled him a little at how easily it came out.

"That is alright. I am sorry that I can be so pushy at times," Francis expressed likewise.

They looked at each other a while, astounded by how simple the solution to what usually would have been a night of guilt and regret was. Not a single hint of misgiving between them, Arthur climbed into his side of the bed and gladly leaned over to reciprocate the kiss waiting for him there then turned out the light.

Waking too dazed to understand it was still night outside some undeterminable amount of time later, the man beside him still soundly asleep, Arthur squinted up at the ceiling wondering what had caused him to jolt so suddenly from unconsciousness. He didn't recall hearing a sound from outside nor was he having a particularly lively dream, or any dream that he could make out, and so the cause would remain unkown.

Mouth so dry that his tongue was glued to the roof of it, he spent a few minutes debating whether he should get up for a glass of water before actually doing so, sitting up slowly so as not to disturb his boyfriend in spite of knowing how deeply he slept. The sound of his every movement amplified against the stillness of the night, it took him a while to make it across the landing and down the stairs, having to pause at each creaking board.

Eventually making it to the bottom of the flight, he slunk past the front room archway, peeking in at his brother who lay motionless. The poor boy, he truly was too wholesome for his own good at times.

Creeping a few steps in, he studied the sleeping face, darkened lids closed behind the glasses he had forgotten to take off before passing out, his phone still in his hand and in danger of falling to the floor. With well-practiced hands, Arthur gently pulled the frames from his nose as he had done many times before, folding them and placing them on the table, and did the same with his phone. Unaware of the activity going on around him, the younger man barely stirred from the position he was in, covers pulled up to his chin and face half buried in the pillow.

Laying a hand tenderly on his knotted head, the older man sympathised to the point of agony. He ran his fingers through the thick strands, separating the tangles without tugging at the roots. His hair was as soft as it had been when he was five years old and hadn't darkened at all since, unlike Alfred's hair which had gone several shades closer to brown as he grew older. One last look down as he rested his palm gently over the side of his head then he let him be, going to the kitchen.

Painstakingly taking a glass from the cupboard and running the tap as low as he could to avoid causing a racket, he stood by the sink to drink his half-filled beverage in one gulp but found himself not quite satisfied. He turned the tap again, water spurting out with an abrupt sputtering and he cursed the old pipes, quickly turning the flow off to silence the noise.

"Hello?" a drowsy voice mumbled across the hallway.

Berating himself for his carelessness, Arthur sighed and left his glass in the sink.

"Sorry, it's just me, didn't mean to be so loud," he spoke just below regular volume, although by comparison he felt as though he were shouting, as he came into view of the face that had emerged over the arm of the sofa.

"It's fine, just making sure I'm not hearing things," Matthew relaxed again, "You okay?"

"I was getting some water," the other shuffled a few steps closer and leant against the doorframe, his brother's ghostly face almost glowing in the sheer moonlight that struck through the curtains. "I'm so sorry, Matt," something in him crumbled at the sight, the image of those panic stricken eyes etched into his brain, reminding him he had failed as a brother, unable to protect his family from anything.

"It's not your fault, Arthur, I've been stressed with school and Alfred being gone is weird to me too, it would have happened anyway," Matthew referred to what had happened earlier.

"No, I'm sorry, Matt. I should have known something was wrong, payed more attention to you. I've always been so worried about Al that it's like you get forgotten, that's not fair," the elder sibling lamented, thinking of all the times the younger of the twins had gone overlooked.

"Arty, please, you're overthinking this," the other tried to calm him, "You don't really think it's your fault, do you?"

"It's not yours," Arthur argued as though that were a logical progression of thought.

The centre of his brows wrinkling, Matthew propped himself up on one elbow.

"It's not anyone's," he stated gently.

Arthur couldn't stand the way the other's eyes tried to persuade him and turned his gaze to the floor.

"I know the thought that things just happen randomly is kind of unsettling but that's how it is," he continued to murmur in his knowing way, watching his sibling with a look more world weary than a nineteen year old should have been able to give, "Things happen to us that are out of our control and we're affected by them. That's all it is."

He hated that it made sense, hated the uncontrollable nature of it all, but he was right.

"And I never felt like you forgot me, not once," he tagged on, "You're an amazing brother."

Hearing it said in his brother's voice made the older man happier than he cared to admit and a simpering smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"So are you," he hoped the extent to which he meant what he said came across, "Get some sleep."

He waited for Matthew to settle down under the covers, the way he used to when he would go and check on both his brothers when they were younger, before he headed for the stairs. At the top he came upon a little white ball that had chosen the middle of the landing floor for its bed. Scooping it up without complaint, he carried her into the bedroom with him, setting her down on the bed and getting in himself.

Queenie circled in the spot he had put her several times, considering if she liked the new sleeping place, then spread herself out between the peaks of soft fabric. Kissing at her quietly, she rolled, stretching her paws up so that her fuzzy belly was exposed. Thinking she must get bored being stuck in the house all day, Arthur made a note to himself to buy her some toys the next day, slotting the chore in alongside making the dreaded call and, with a groan, planned it around the therapy session he had scheduled after work. With everything that had happened since he last saw Tino that was sure to be interesting.

* * *

I actually managed a timely upload, amazing. So I'm sorry if some of this seemed like it sort of came out of left field but the whole Alistair thing has a purpose, I promise. Also, let me know what you think of Matthew because I like to make him as cute as possible and I have a tendency to get carried away.

As you can probably tell, I am a cat person and a fun coincidence is that my mum used to have a cat called Arthur.

Reviews welcomed and follow if you want to stay up to date since I don't have a regular schedule.


	13. Chapter 13

Phone heavy as lead, thumb hovering over the number pad, Arthur looked at the copied down number in his other hand. It was a new one, as it was every time, and he didn't bother to add it to his contacts list after typing it out. One last button to press and the call would be connected but his resolve wavered, and he dropped the phone onto his desk, raising both hands to rub his face and moan softly into them.

He really didn't want to do what he was about to, a feeling that made itself very much known in the pit of his stomach. A visceral wrongness about the situation twisted his insides, not in the same way that apprehension might but more akin to dread. Foreboding, perhaps. The same uneasiness he got whenever he grew too attached to a character in a book, knowing that meant they were probably not long for the story, the same dire pang he had felt whenever he got a call from his mother's doctor asking for a private meeting.

Chewing his bottom lip as he stared, unseeing in his deep contemplation, at the broken screen, he sighed and swallowed his anxieties, reaching out to grab the phone. Without looking, he hit the call button and raised it to his ear, leg bouncing in place as the other end rung.

By the fourth tone, he was beginning to think, with a glimmer of hope, that it was a wrong number and the whole ordeal might be avoided out of no fault of his own, but he had jumped to conclusions too soon. The fifth ring was cut off with a click and the sound of a thickly accented voice caused his thudding heart to sink.

"Hello?" it croaked with the distinct mumble of someone half asleep.

"What did you want, then?" Arthur got straight to the point, wanting the conversation to be over with.

A pause down the line, shifting sheets and a grunt before the other spoke confusedly.

"You called me," he seemed in no state to understand what was going on and Arthur had to move the phone away from his face to take a calming breath in order to carry on.

"You told me to," he reminded him, an edge to his tone, "It's Arthur."

He could sense the frown on the other's brow as radio silence showed Alistair struggled to recall his own actions.

"Shit, right, fuck," he blasphemed in realisation, "I sent that card a month ago, I thought you hadn't got it."

"Well, I did, and I'd like to know what this is about," Arthur was short with his words, no patience for the other's sluggishness.

"Aye, alright, calm down," Alistair brusquely propitiated, the sound of more movement followed by a hacking cough that caused Arthur's lip to curl, almost able to smell the alcohol that perpetually seemed to be on his breath, "It's about dad."

Rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, Arthur tried to hurry them along. "Yes, I assumed as much, what about him?"

"He got arrested."

He said nothing more, as though this were sufficient information.

"Okay? Are you…expecting me to do something about that?" Arthur's irritation mounted.

"As if you would," the other scoffed.

"What then?" the younger man had to keep from sniping too loudly as someone passed by outside his office.

"Look, I don't know why, but he was in your area when he decided to try and steal a car. He's going to court after Christmas," Alistair grew defensive, "I'm coming down to be there, that's all I wanted to tell you."

"Wha-why was he in London?" Arthur reactively asked despite what the other had said.

"I told you, I don't know," the older man reiterated with increased stress.

Looking to wrap things up, Arthur moved on.

"Fine, was that it?" he pressed.

A derisive laugh came down the line as Alistair spoke with sneering condescension, both men having had enough of one another's company.

"Aye, that was all, so you can get back to putting that stick up your a-"

Arthur hung up and put the phone screen side down on the table with more force that was necessary. A breath drained him as he slumped in his seat, head falling back against the headrest, eyes closed. While the content of the conversation didn't faze nor startle him, the act of speaking to the other seemed to have quickly taken the little he had been willing to give and the idea of going on with his day made him want to curl up in bed all the more.

However, he remembered with some relief that it was his last day of work until after boxing day as he had managed to book time off a few months prior. What he was planning to do in that time, he still wasn't sure. They had never solidified any plans with Matthew, although it was assumed they would be spending Christmas day together, and there still seemed to be no date of when they would be seeing the rest of their friends, but Arthur didn't mind. He was happy to simply be left in peace.

Having been so productive of late, the usual seasonal tsunami of projects he would have normally had the pleasure of dealing with was absent, and the day remained relatively stress free. For him it was, at least, as he found quite a different picture when he left his office that afternoon, the rest of the floor consumed by utter carnage. Panicked faces stood in line at photocopiers and the strained beeping of the printer grew hoarse from overuse.

Weaving around the flurry of bodies that darted back and forth between cubicles, Arthur made a conscious effort not to look them in the eyes for fear of being asked to help out and managed to make his way unhindered to the lift. He made his way down, stopping one story short of the ground level where he got out just in time to miss the person he had come to find.

Erika made her way through a door at the far end of the room alongside a man, both of them looking equally as overworked and dishevelled. Rather than chasing her down, though, he made his way over the mail units in the corner. Searching the rows of shelf like slots for her name, he found the corresponding compartment, decorated with several glittery stickers of rainbows and love hearts, and left the Christmas card he had bought for her inside. A small gesture but one he was sure she would appreciate, one that she undoubtedly deserved.

His business on the unfamiliar floor concluded, he made his way back to the lifts through the disarray that seemed universal throughout the building, eager to be away from the mess. Surprisingly he had never worked that floor as an intern, joining the company at a regular desk position before being promoted to his current role after two years of working there, and looking back on the down-trodden faces that occupied the space, he was glad.

Doors opening on the foyer, bare of any decoration save the sprinkling of tinsel along the top of the reception desk, he walked out into the saturating mist that drifted heavily from the sky. The streets were yet to hit capacity, but several early commuters waited under the shelter of the bus stop with him and hurried onto the first one the came along, wanting to be out of the miserable weather. Not that it was a lot more pleasant on the bus, the seats and floor moist with the wetness brought in on people's clothes and the windows steamed over.

Wiping the condensation from the pane with his sleeve, Arthur peered down at the pavement from the top floor as the bus pulled away. It seemed the whole world was in a rush as people bustled between shops on the high street, most likely attempting to complete that last-minute gift shopping, heads down and umbrellas up. Luckily for Arthur, his other half had completed the last of the seasonal shopping back in November and he himself did all of his buying online, so he was spared the crush.

His breath quickly caused the window to steam over again and he left it, none too interested in the dark, wet streets below. Instead he flicked through various, unused social media accounts, seeing that Alfred had uploaded some pictures of himself at different locations: on a football field, with his teammates, wearing the university jersey. He liked the photos but neglected to comment, not knowing what to say, and savoured the sight of the sunny face until he got off the bus.

Still a way off from the office he was slowly making his way towards, he ducked into one of the shops that bookended the road, a pet shop where he intended to get a few things that Queenie could amuse herself with. Getting briefly distracted by the array of colourful fish that swum in in glimmering clusters, he went further in to browse the selection. Picking up some fluffy, jingling, mouse shaped things as well as some treats, he payed and was back out into the dank air.

Walking the quickest route he knew despite the fact the gutters along it were overflowing and cars frequently missed them by a hair, he managed to reach the glowing doorway still relatively dry. He paused before going in, taking a moment to spruce up his reflection mirrored in the dented, metal post box. Although his sense of confidence had never really been linked with his outward appearance, he found it helped him to be at least hallway presentable.

He swept his choppy fringe back and straightened out his shirt, the crumpled material hanging loosely over his body. The metal surface in which he examined himself showed back a distorted image, his face concaved and blurry from the grain of the manmade substance, and he met the steely tinged eyes only briefly before stepping away. Smoothing his collar down as he turned to the door, welcoming the blast of heat that erupted from inside the toasty building as he entered.

The suspense of sitting in that waiting room was something he was sure he would never be at ease with as he urged along the minutes until he was no longer on public display. As sure as his more rational side was that no one he knew would come in and see him there, the paranoia was persistent. He pictured Antonio, Ludwig, maybe Alistair appearing in the doorway, meeting his eye with shock and amusement before he melted into a puddle of sheer humiliation.

Not that he had anything to be humiliated about. It wasn't the 1700s anymore, therapy was a highly respected practice that plenty of people sought help from. Matthew was studying it, for God's sake, how would he have felt to know that his own brother was embarrassed to be associated with it, Arthur realised with some remorse. For someone who liked to consider himself a fairly open minded individual, he had to admit his own views were rather contradictory at times.

But it was the implication of it that he couldn't gouge from his brain. The stigma that came with it all, that a person was incapable or crazy or attention seeking. Things no one thought of him, things he would never think of another yet, nonetheless, that he thought firmly of himself. There was no reason that he should seeing as he had gone following the advice that numerous loved ones had given him, but he did. Because he hated himself.

Mind whirring as Tino opened the door to greet him, Arthur did his best to quell the tempest of concerns that swirled within him and went through to his regular seat. His bag made a jingling noise that he hoped the other hadn't heard as he set it down and engaged with routine pleasantries, watching the smaller man come to sit opposite him.

"So, how is your week going?" he started off, already prepared with his writing tools, "You told me before you left last time that you were about to see your brother off, am I right?"

Arthur was caught by the abruptness of the question, having been expecting the regular small talk to guide them in, and glanced across the space between them to see he was being studied intensely.

"Um, yes we took him to the airport on Sunday," he went along with the topic.

"How did that go?" the other's tone was still light and pleasant, but he neglected to jot down any notes from what they were saying as he usually might have done, lilac hued eyes stuck fast on his subject's face.

Suspicious of the force with which he was being watched, Arthur tried to look elsewhere but found his gaze drawn back again.

"It was alright," he glossed over the event, "I'm not overly fond of airports but we had no problems."

"That's good," Tino acknowledged, nodding slowly, "How about the rest of the week? Do you notice his absence much?"

His line of fire was notably more direct than normal, as though he were looking for straight yes or no answers.

"I do, in a way," Arthur was guardedly honest, "but it's not so bad, really. I speak to him every day."

Tapping his pen against his lower lip as he listened, Tino leant forward in his seat, elbow balanced on the knee of his crossed legs.

"How about work then?" he probed a different area, expression unchanging.

Arthur's already uncomfortable frame had stiffened subconsciously in response to his stance and he had to stop himself from actively edging away.

"It's been easier," he, again, told the basic truth without filling in any impactful details, "I have almost a week off now."

"Good," the smaller man repeated with a hint less enthusiasm than the first time, "Anything you plan to do with your time?"

"Well, Francis and I recently got a cat, I suppose I'll be spending time looking after her," Arthur eased up when talking about the frivolous topic, one without any deeper meaning that the other could delve into, "and we'll probably see some of our friends at some point."

"Was getting a pet your idea?" Tino took interest in the information, instantly putting his patient back on edge.

"No, it was Francis'. He surprised me," he explained.

The other hummed, nodding again. "Animals make very good support, you know," he informed thoughtfully, a brow quirked as though he expected something to come of his telling this.

"Oh, yes…I've heard," Arthur gave a stilted reply as he picked at a hangnail on his ring finger.

"Any other plans for the holidays?" Tino pressed on without missing a beat, "Seeing family? Going anywhere?"

"It'll just be Francis and I and the b- and, um, Matthew," Arthur inwardly cursed as he corrected himself.

He raised his hand to his mouth to bite on the flap of skin he'd been further ripping up, averting his gaze from the one which refused to budge across from him.

"It must be difficult to not have him around at this time of year," Tino's caring words went straight for the jugular as he almost seemed to be goading some kind of a reaction from his client.

Eyes flitting over then quickly back down to the carpet, Arthur tried to collect himself, lowering his hand and clearing his throat before he spoke.

"It's…not ideal but of course we'll make time to see him when he gets back," he attempted to ward off the notions the other was trying to implant in him, despite their already being engrained in his psyche.

Rolling his lips together, he pinched the dry skin between his teeth, still not looking directly at the man he sat with as he waited for something to be said.

However, silence hung heavy around them. A moment or two spent marinating in the deadness of the atmosphere and Arthur grew anxious, still biting at his mouth as he glanced up, curious as to what the pause was for.

An odd expression adorned the face of the other as he sat, leant forward over his lap, pen tapping against his chin, in contemplation. His attention was half set on Arthur, who watched him with unmaskable apprehension, thoughts clearly running behind his eyes.

With a sigh, he pulled himself upright, pushing himself back to cross his legs over the opposite way and clasp his interlaced hands over his knee, arms straight. He glanced to the side of himself then back at his patient, eyes levelled.

"Arthur, I really want to help you. I want to help everyone that comes to see me, that's my job and that is my purpose here," he eventually came out with, his voice lowered, phrasing deliberate, "But I can't do that if you're lying to me."

"I'm sorry?" Arthur blinked in shock, mouth agape.

The earnestness of his words and the softness of his face betrayed no hint of a lie as Tino continued.

"Well, perhaps not lying but you're not telling me the whole truth and I think you know that," his well-meant challenge landed a blow directly on the other's chest, hard, "I hate to do this this but there are certain things I know about you. Matthew used to speak about you and your family quite frequently and there are things I believe we should discuss but we can't unless you work with me."

Throat closing, blood pounded past Arthur's ears, his face burning as the edges of his vision blurred out. The room was thick with the festering sensation of claustrophobia, he was stuck fast within it, the master of the hellish domain waiting, ever sympathetic, for him to speak.

"I'm miserable," he surprised himself in saying, "and I don't know why."

He watched the other nod, his scrutiny relenting as something real was said.

"And you're here to work on that," he gently urged.

"Yes," Arthur's voice trailed off as he looked away, his composure leaving him.

But the admition was made, the feeling owned up to in front of a person that could maybe do something to help. No immediate sense of peace came to him, relief was far from his mind yet still a release of something deep inside, small but poignant, was evident. A key turned while the door had still to be opened. A contingent point on which he would make his next move in whichever direction he chose and although it could have been as easy to go back as to go forward, he supposed that things in motion tended to stay that way.

Therefore, when Tino suggested, "Perhaps we could start over. Try this all again but be a little more…open this time."

It hardly pained him at all to agree with a quiet, "That would be good."

Discarding his notepad, perhaps a sign of good faith, Tino smiled, subtly shifting the sternness from his brow, and relaxed his stance to rest against the arm of the sofa.

"I'm really happy to hear that," he clearly meant what he said, "Why not start now? Tell me, how do you feel?"

Far too broad a question for him to wrap his scattered head around, Arthur stuttered, failing to start, but the other continued, reassuring him.

"In this moment or in general, it doesn't matter, I only want you to be honest."

Mouth opening, in a hurry to prevent the quiet that paralyzed him, Arthur closed it again, allowing himself a moment to think.

"I don't know," he uttered, "I…try not to think about it."

"Which is it, though?" the other rebutted, causing him pause to which Tino pointed out, "What you said, both are quite different things. Not knowing means you have never considered it. Actively refusing to think about it says you know there is something there that you are not willing to deal with. Both are fine, but which is it?"

"I…" again Arthur took a moment to organise himself before he let anything loose into the world, the language needed to make himself understood escaping his tongue, "I suppose I choose not to…dwell on things where I can avoid it."

"It is a natural reaction," Tino mused, "A lot of people repress the things that hurt to think about. The question that brings up is how long have you been doing this for?"

A sad laugh blew from Arthur's nose, barely audible, as he cast his thoughts back, then back some more, trying to recall a time he had been open with his feelings, and came up blank.

"…Always," he said plainly, thinking not much of the fact until he felt the touch of pity from the other's gaze. "That is to say that telling people how I felt was just never something I thought to do," he revised, turning his eyeline away.

"I think there's more to it than that, Arthur," Tino pushed, "It may be true that your first instinct is not to talk to people about how you feel but to repress emotion is a learned reaction."

He wasn't sure if he liked being questioned the way that he was, but Arthur felt a certain security in being guided through the experience. It was no longer a case of being tossed head first into murky waters, as it had seemed when he first entered that room, but more a stroll along the river bank. A turbulent river for sure, but the water was clear and the ground beneath him was solid. Still, the kinks he saw ahead were worrisome.

Filling his lungs to exhale his words as he shifted uncomfortably, he went back to focusing on the irritated skin around his nails.

"I just don't like people worrying about me," he confessed.

"Why is that?"

Arthur couldn't see what he was doing but was sure there was some empathic expression waiting for him.

"They have their own problems to worry about."

"And you don't want them to waste their time thinking about you?" the smaller man purposefully worded the query to reflect Arthur's own views of himself and succeeded in getting the introspective reaction he had wanted.

"Yeah," Arthur almost whispered, receding further into his own thoughts.

"What could they have to think about that's more important than a person they care about?" Tino asked of him only semi-rhetorically.

Expected to answer, Arthur shrugged lightly. "Themselves," he replied.

"You worry about other people," Tino was quick to highlight his hypocrisy, "and you seem to have very little regard for yourself. Why are you different?"

Arthur's own outlook made no sense, of course, but even when confronted by the concrete logic of the other's argument he still felt the need to defend his flawed reasoning.

"They have more important things to worry about," the increasingly insecure man reiterated.

"So, it's your job to worry about them while no one worries about you," Tino laid out for him once more, his own words being used to counteract themselves.

A headiness seeping in, Arthur couldn't resist the urge to cling to the mindset he had leant upon for so many years. For as long as he'd had people to worry about. However, it was slipping through his fingers, disintegrating the more they spoke about it, Tino's words slicing through it with ease.

"In a way," he still tried to hold on, to force the tattered shreds of thinking back together yet somehow the pieces wouldn't fit.

"But why?" seemed to be all that Tino was interested in, his flaxen head cocked to one side.

"Because I'm their older brother," Arthur subconsciously related the situation to the people he worried over the most, having seen their faces in the back of his head the entire time. Their smiling mouths hovered there, in the ether of his mind, as he tried to reword it, but nothing came out.

"Is that how you see yourself, Arthur?" the other addressed him by name to bring him back into the room as his eyes grew hazy, "A brother, guardian, the one who is responsible?"

"I have to be," Arthur spoke disconnectedly, forehead beginning to furrow with the effort it took to stay present.

"Have to?" a voice echoed from somewhere far across the room, the space between them expanding by the second.

"I want to," he corrected himself, mentally scolding himself for making it appear as though caring for his family were some sort of chore, "It's just, when my mum died, I had to, but I want to. Of course, I want to."

"What are you outside of that, can I ask?" the voice came to him again, fainter still.

"Outside?" he restated.

He wished he was outside; the room had run out of air. The lack of oxygen had caused his light headedness to worsen and dark patches floated before his eyes. In his head, the faces still watched him, as did the other person he sat with who was simultaneously a mile away and close enough to smell. A dainty fragrance, of clean sheets and fresh air.

"Arthur."

At the sound of his name he raised his gaze from where he had been focused unblinking on the carpet. Thoughts incoherently buzzed through his mind, playing on a muffled loop as he waited for the other to speak, unable to do so himself.

"Are you still with me?" Tino checked, looking between the glassy, green eyes.

"Yes," Arthur's own words were distant to his ears.

The concern displayed upon the professional's face was palpable as he moved forward in his seat again, hands clasped as though beseeching his patient. His hunched position mirroring that of the other man's, Tino manoeuvred to ensure that his eye contact was unavoidable.

"Arthur, may I share my opinion with you?" he requested calmly.

Apprehensive of what that opinion might be, Arthur agreed, nonetheless, with an unsure, "Alright."

Taking a breath before he began, the solemnity in his eyes told Arthur that what was to be said was irreversible.

"I believe you are holding on to a lot of things which you have never properly dealt with and that they are preventing you from moving forward in life," he proposed, kindly expression shifting subtly with his words, "You relate yourself and self-worth to how well you fulfil certain roles, giving yourself standards too high to ever live up to despite the fact nobody expects that of you."

Arthur couldn't tell if it was the sentiment or the way it was said that compelled him to stay quiet but either way, he found himself incapacitated. A sombre trance gripped him, forced him to listen and listen only, the whole of his being absorbing what was said as though his body were porous. The words were cold as they sunk in, shards of ice that settled in his core and wouldn't melt, lodging there.

"For example, you stay in a job that you find unsatisfying because you have become so accustomed to the role of provider, yet your brothers don't live with you anymore and, from what you have told me, Francis could support the both of you. So, you have every reason to leave but you don't because you would feel as though you were not doing what you are meant to," Tino went on spewing frozen daggers.

It was as though he could feel himself dematerialising. Just as it had to his thoughts earlier, the plain truth cut through Arthur, severing him limb from limb, mind from body, until nothing but a husk in his form remained. Although that was what he had been all along, he supposed. Nothing but a front of nonsensical justifications, the person under it all having been smothered years ago.

"These arbitrary roles you have given yourself are all you see yourself as since they are what you had to be for so long but now that it isn't' necessary and so you feel, perhaps, that you have no place to fit in."

The man across from him paused, granting him a moment to process it all, and in the silence of the room Arthur was sure the sound of himself shattering would deafen them both.

He was nothing, a non-human, he knew as much, but being told directly to his face was something else.

"It is common in people who have been forced to act maturely at a young age," Tino speculated, his posture straightening out as he gestured vaguely, "The lack of responsibility is equated to a lack of purpose or worth. But that is not the case."

Breath catching in the back of his throat, Arthur struggled to take in air, having to force it through his lungs. The bridge of his nose aching with the pressure that built behind his eyes, his downturned gaze flicked up to the consoling face across the table then directed itself to his lap.

"Are you alright, Arthur?" Tino turned his head to study the other's face despite his trying to hide it and Arthur could see him out of the corner of his vision.

He regretted cutting his hair, missing the way it would flop over his face to shield him from looks like the one he was being given. Unable to avoid it now, though, he gave up on trying to avoid it.

"I just wanted to take care of them," weakness permeated his voice but there was no judgement for it to be found in the other's expression.

"You did," Tino assured, "And now you can worry about yourself."

Finding himself hesitant to believe what he was told, Arthur looked between the smaller man's rounded features, imploring with his eyes as though asking for permission to feel the way he did.

The benign face of the other replied with encouragement, the corners of his lips turned slightly upward, coaxing him to try out the new sensation he was experiencing. Telling him to accept the acceptance.

"I understand how hard it is to move on from things that are so completely life changing but being stuck in a situation that hurts you is surely worse," Tino rationalized, "I only tell you all of this because I think it will help."

Biting at his inner cheek, Arthur nodded. "Of course," he assented.

Mimicking the action of his client's head, Tino checked his watch.

"We have another five minutes, but I think maybe you want to go and…think it all over a little," he sensed he would get no more from the man that disassociated before his eyes.

Stuck somewhere in between a state of hyper self-analysis and mental static, Arthur bobbed his head again, lingering a beat before he moved to stand. Doing so, his body clunking to life like an outdated machine, he reached for his bag and headed to the door, his exit interjected by the man that stood behind him.

"You should be happy with what you did today," he congratulated, causing Arthur to cast his eyes back over his shoulder, "I know you aren't finding this easy, but you did very well just now."

Restraining the cringe he could feel trying to break through, the taller man simply gave a quick thankyou and slipped out of the room, the feelings he had hoped to leave in there following him. Like a ghost he could feel them looming just behind, peering over his shoulder, misty hands caressing his mind, cold fingers prying apart the cracks in his brain to slip inside. They rifled through his stored memories, tainting everything they touched, smearing them like fingerprints would a photograph, smudging his own image out of existence. He tried to shake free their grip as he walked but they had a firm hold, one that constricted with each breath. Tighter and tighter still until he had to stop to keep from passing out on the pavement.

Slowing to a halt in the middle of the street, Arthur made an attempt to calm himself, giving up quite quickly when he grew even fainter. He raised a hand to his head, running it through his hair, gripping the short strands in his fist as though he hoped to rip the thoughts out with them, and moved to the side of the empty pathway. Leaning against the brick wall there, he let his arm drop and stared blankly ahead.

The moon looked huge, enormous, unnaturally so. He half expected it to grow even larger as it came closer, colliding with the earth, pulverising it instantly. Such a thing was impossible, or so science would tell him in words he didn't know the meaning of, but for a split second he entertained the notion. It seemed a fitting end. The randomness of life could be demolished just as randomly, nothing lasted and that was how it was meant to be. Days and relationships and people all stopped at some point, some unjustly so, and there was nothing anyone could do.

'This too shall pass'; he was reminded of the phrase. Although he couldn't recall its original author it was something his mother had said from time to time, usually in response to something that probably should have been taken more seriously. Not that she was a frivolous person, he tagged on to the criticism, refusing to recognise a flaw as such. In all fairness he could rarely think of a time she had been wrong, her faith in the goodness of the world coming through for her while he would fret himself sick over every little thing.

Pushing away from where he leant, some clarity having been returned to him, he stumbled forward and moved on. Actually seeing what was around him, he recognised the little promenade of shops his legs had carried him to, their shutters drawn for the night as they had been the last time he had run across them. With some curiosity he began walking again, slowly this time, meandering his way to the last in the row that Matthew had spoken about, and found it quite different from its previous state.

Its hollow interior had been filled out somewhat, new floor boards put down and the walls patched up, the wires stuffed back inside. Covered in a layer of white wash it looked ready to be moved in to already, however, a sign stuck against the inside of the glass stated it wouldn't be opening until after the holiday season had passed. There was nothing in particular to look at but Arthur remained watching the space a while more and again found himself thinking of how much his mother would have liked it.

Wondering how his brother's application had gone, he peeled himself away and floated on, his footsteps as quiet as those of the imagined spectre that continued to stalk him. The night seemed barely dark at all, street lights glowing artificial orange on either side of the road and the moon in its exaggerated size illuminating the world as though the sun had never set. Even the sky had cleared, not cloud in sight yet not a star either. A vast, unbroken expanse, open to the heavens and beyond. The same sky that looked blue to his brother half way across the world.

His body taking him the rest of the way home as his head remained a mile away, Arthur came across his front door and looked at it a moment before opening it and going inside. As usual, he was welcomed home by his lover's sweet calling, accompanied this time by an animal's voice. Queenie trilled one of her raspy mews as she trotted into the hallway from the kitchen, following her owner into the living room.

"She has been very chatty today, I think she was looking for you," Francis chuckled as he saw the two of them come in.

Arthur only hummed, however, dropping his brief case to fall heavily onto the sofa.

His body language saying it all, Francis immediately frowned. "What is it?" he straightened from his relaxed position and shuffled closer to the other.

Sat as though still waiting for Tino to let him leave, the younger man's pensive state held him in place, unmoving, unspeaking, too absorbed to react.

"Amour?"

A hand was laid on his back as the form beside him gravitated to his suffering.

"What is wrong?"

"I, um…" Arthur was stifled once more by the blockage in his throat as he picked at his nails, "there were some things that I thought about."

"What sort of things?" Francis entreated, taking one of his partner's hands in both of his.

Glancing at their joined fingers, Arthur swallowed back the rising obstruction and looked the other in the face.

"Just what things have been like the last few years," he mentioned vaguely, without the heart to talk about it in depth any longer, "and since, you know…"

Able to deduce what he was alluding to, Francis nodded, giving the frozen hand he held a comforting squeeze.

All went quiet until a frustrated meow at their feet caused both men to pay attention. From the way Queenie scratched at his bag, Arthur assumed she could smell the treats through the fabric and a smile curved his mouth for the first time that day. Pulling his hand from the warming touch, he opened up the brief case and pulled out the few things he had gotten her, tossing them onto the floor. The cat regarded them with some suspicion, sniffing at the foreign items before reaching out a paw to bat at the jingly mouse.

Endeared by her innocent game, the couple watched her play, Francis taking the toy from her to toss across the room so that she dashed after it. Looking to the side of him to see the way the older man smiled wider after her, Arthur felt his own expression dropping once more and turned his attention back to the cat that raced after her new possession. The mild warmth that touched his chest at the sight did little to fill the cavern that had been carved out, a tiny flame that tried to light the depths of the abys. It flickered, wavered, threatened to go out from the slightest gust and leave him in the dark, alone.

"I know you're meant to be back at work tomorrow, but would you mind, maybe, staying home again?" Arthur asked at the idea of being left to his own devices the next day, the silence of an empty house to accommodate thoughts.

Concern pricking his eyes, Francis turned to his other half who still focused on Queenie.

"Oui, I can take another day if you would like me to," he complied, refraining from questioning the request.

"Thanks," Arthur would have left it at that had the worried look he was receiving not been hopeful of some explanation, "I just don't really want to be by myself."

He didn't care to see what the other expressed, unable to take another ounce of pity, but leant into the kiss that was pressed against the side of his head.

Francis didn't seem to mind what terrible company he was for the rest of the evening as he emitted only the odd hum in reply to conversation, trapped within the web he had spun himself inside his head. Picking at his food as they ate, he regaled how his conversation with Alistair had gone, a distinct lack of enthusiasm to his words, Francis only nodding along as he sensed it wasn't the time to open a dialogue on the subject.

Despite his mental exhaustion, sleep would not relieve him, and he lay straining to keep his eyes closed for several hours. Even in an unconscious state he was plagued by dreams too incoherent to make sense of, so much noise in his head that it woke him more than once. At half aware intermissions he saw day break, late and stark, over the rooftops, a pale sun emerging to disperse the nights fog.

He was awake as Francis got up, saying nothing, only listening to the sounds of his day beginning whilst procrastinating the start of his own. Finding he could no longer do so, however, he turned his face to look through the window. The white sky hardly inspired him but there was no way he was getting back to sleep and so he saw no point in waiting.

Heaving himself upright, his small hope that a shower could rinse his head clean from the previous days shit proved futile and he got out feeling exactly the same, only damper. The unheated air of the landing caused his bare skin to tingle as he sped between the bathroom and the bedroom, towling his hair dry on the way. Contemplating his need for more variety as he chose between his collection of identically dull jumpers, he settled on the least washed out shade of dark green he had available, slipping it on and avoiding the mirror on his way out, knowing it hung from him like he was made of wire.

Still misty eyed and distracted, he drifted into the kitchen where the rest of the small household resided, Francis at the table seeing to work with a slice of toast in his hand and Queenie enjoying her own breakfast. Going directly over to the kettle, steam still visibly trailing from the spout, Arthur set it to boil again and stood waiting without a word, leaving the other to spark an interaction.

"Do you want the rest of this?" he half turned to offer the toast he had only nibbled at.

"Not particularly," Arthur muttered back.

Supressing a grimace as he watched his other half reaching into the cupboard, jumper lifting to show his protruding hip bones, Francis coaxed him gently.

"Perhaps you should try to eat breakfast sometimes," he recommended, "It really does improve the beginning of the day."

Almost nauseated at the thought of eating before midday, Arthur declined with an excuse.

"I'm never hungry in the morning."

"You are never hungry at all," Francis rebuffed.

The switch on the kettle flipped, vapour pouring steadily upward, and Arthur set his attention to one of the few skills he had and took pride in; making tea to absolute perfection.

"What will you do today?" the older of the two spoke again, biting into the slice of bread he had changed his mind on wanting.

Stirring the contents of his mug thoroughly, Arthur clasped it between his hands, heat surging up his arms.

"I don't know, write some cards maybe?" he considered, guilty at the fact that he had made Francis stay home again despite his disinterest in talking to him.

"That would be helpful," Francis nodded, "There is a list on the table."

Happy to have something to occupy himself with, the younger man reciprocated the action and took his tea across the hall, glancing down to see he was being followed. His furry shadow taking a seat on the floor beside him as he tried to find a comfortable position at the coffee table, he found the list of names for cards not yet written and rummaged about under the tree to find the box of Christmas cards.

Coughing up glitter as he emerged from under the gaudy decoration, he brushed the pine needles from his clothes and set to work. The list wasn't long as they didn't know many people and so he made his way down it quickly, reaching the bottom where one last name had been tagged on in a different coloured pen. Neglecting to write a card for Alistair, Arthur counted himself done, stacking the filled and sealed envelopes into a pile, and found himself at a loss of what to do.

Preoccupied, he scratched Queenie behind the ear as he stared off into space. She quickly grew bored of not being the centre of attention, however, bumping her head against his knee and rubbing her cheeks over his trousers so that they became clad with white fur. Her attention seeking was only half rewarded as Arthur scooped her up into his lap, petting her as his eyes glazed over, directed at the window.

The way that the clouds formed a sheer layer across the sky made the sun visible behind them. It still stung his eyes a little to look at, but the outline was crisp. A hot, white ball blazing billions of miles away, appearing more like another moon than the sun, its light seeming cold. Vision burning as Arthur apparently forgot one of the most basic animal functions, he blinked and stopped inadvertently blinding himself. His scorched corneas throbbed, showing him blobs of colour, until his sight readjusted itself.

Shifting back and up onto the sofa, bringing the cat with him, Arthur turned on the TV, switching the channel to some radio station as he thought maybe listening to other people's problems might drown out his own. Queenie swatted playfully at his hands, apparently in a restless mood, and rolled over onto her side whilst the larger creature failed to fight off the introspection.

Head lolling against the cushions, he listened to the mindless chatter of the radio hosts, their back and forth punctuated by gratingly faked laughs. Whatever they spoke about was instantly undermined by their unfunny commentary and it didn't take long for Arthur to reach his limit. Switching to the next station over, another radio channel, he stood up and went to go and find one of the many books he was part way through.

Mum would have scolded him; the thought came into his head as he picked up a novella, he was no more than two chapters into, from beside the bed. She had been a firm believer in finishing what was started before taking on anything new, perhaps the reason she had always seemed to so effortlessly manage herself in a way Arthur longed to emulate. Taking care of three boys, a demanding job, her endless charity work and other projects, all things she had taken in stride, like it was second nature to her whereas Arthur couldn't handle his own wellbeing.

The cat that had followed him up the stairs gave an impatient meow from the doorway, calling her owner back from the place his memories were leading him. Tucking the paperback under his arm, Arthur picked up the clingy animal, carrying her back downstairs with him and setting her down on his lap as he opened up to the page with the folded edge. She readjusted, aligning herself with the line between his thighs and settled, allowing him to rest the spine of the book on her back.

Although both the main ceiling light and the lamp that was half obscured by the Christmas tree were on, the print appeared fuzzy and he was unable to squint it fully into focus. He made his peace with the part legible font, however, and read with only minor difficulty. Processing the words in sequence, interrupted every now and then by the odd intrusive thought, that was all they were to him. Words on a page. They made sense, even sounded nice, but the images they meant to evoke never came into view. He wondered if that was the reason other people didn't enjoy reading, because they couldn't see the story properly.

Alfred had always complained that books were just words, that they were like comics but boring, something both Arthur and their mother had taken grievance with. Hours had been spent trying to get the hyperactive child to just sit down and read one chapter, all in vain as he'd lose interest and bound off to whatever caught his eye next. He had never made it past the midway point of a book probably ever and Arthur was ashamed to say he had written more than one book report on his brother's behalf.

He could remember their mother tutting, rolling her eyes and lamenting the fact that he didn't appreciate literature the same as her elder son, something Arthur had admittedly taken as a compliment. A shadow of a smile graced his lips in the present day as he pictured how she would look out into the garden from the doorway, the sun blessing her pale face, her eyes, her hair, everything about her radiant. Her favourite, blue summer dress swaying in the gentle breeze as she watched her two younger sons playing on the lawn before she would join him in reading on the shaded patio. Many a summer day spent that way, summers that seemed longer in his memories.

"Ah, thank you for finishing the cards for me."

Francis' voice jolted him as his other half entered the room carrying a plate.

"No problem," he replied, the scene in his head dispelling.

"Here, a reward," Francis joked as he set the plate down on the arm of the chair.

Arthur looked at the sandwich he had been gifted but didn't touch it.

"You didn't have to," he said by way of thanks, feeling the sweet gesture would be going to waste on him as he wasn't hungry in the slightest.

Shrugging, an odd expression twisting his lips, Francis' eyes flicked between the food and his partner.

"I thought you might be hungry," he offered.

An awkward stretch of quiet crept in as the conversation dropped, Arthur going back to his reading material as Francis remained in place, his attention still set uneasily on the untouched food.

"Are you alright?" Arthur broke it after a few seconds.

"Oui," the older man still waited, glancing away then back at the other, brows furrowing in the centre, "You will eat it, yes?"

Taken aback by the desperation, Arthur lowered the book.

"Okay," he confirmed perplexedly.

Building up to say something he was unsure of how to word, Francis let out a breath.

"Do you know…how you look, cherie?"

Arthur couldn't help but sigh as he diverted his gaze, knowing full well how grotesque his appearance was.

"I will always think you are beautiful, but please," Francis saw the affect his words had and attempted to soften their impact, extending another of his solicitous looks, "it is not healthy."

"I know," Arthur accepted without argument, "I know you worry."

Turning to man that stood anxiously over him, Arthur tightened his lips in as much of a smile as he could muster and took the plate.

"I promise it will make you feel better," Francis swore with a nod of assurance before leaving his other half to eat in peace.

Despite the evident lack of hunger, or any physical sensation at all, Arthur knew his disregard for his own health was undoubtedly having an affect on him. After a time, the human body gets so used to starvation that it no longer feels the effects of it, and it was clear that that was the case for him. The solution was the simplest thing it could be, all he had to do was eat, yet Arthur still had his doubts in his ability to do so.

Not particularly caring what was in the sandwich, he took the bread in his hands and lifted it to his face, taking a restrained bite. Lettuce crunched and the contrasting texture of processed meat grazed his tongue, although the flavour was obscured by an abundance of tomato. Cloying clumps of white bread stuck to the roof of his mouth, a spreading of mayonnaise glueing it fast so that he had a hard time dislodging it. While the whole thing may have been somewhat overpowered by tomato, he had to admit that it actually tasted alright and that finishing three quarters of it wasn't as much of a chore as he had worried.

Leaving a few mouthfuls worth, he set the plate aside where, sensing an opportunity, Queenie took great interest in it. She sniffed at the plate, interested in the unidentified meat, tail swishing. Taking the hint, Arthur catered to her and ripped off a small piece, holding it up for her to smell some more. A tiny, barbed tongue poked out from her mouth and licked the new food but seemed to decide that it wasn't to her licking as it quickly retracted, her face turning away.

Breathing a laugh at the picky eater, Arthur dropped the sliver of meat onto the plate. He knew that human food was bad for animals, but he always caved to their sweet faces, their eyes pleading with him as though their owners never fed them. It was something he would often be told off for when around the twins' Grandmother's house.

She had owned a fat little Jack Russell, its eyes clouded with age, barely able to move on its stiff limbs, but it had been a darling animal and Arthur would usually sneak something from dinner into his pocket to give to it when his mother wasn't looking. More often than not, however, she would catch him and tell him the poor creature didn't need to be any fatter. Of course, that wouldn't stop him. In retrospect he saw that he was probably the reason it got so big in the first place.

Again, he found himself smiling at nothing but the thoughts in his head, a melancholic delusion of happiness that grew more bitter still as he pictured the faces of the two long dead women, the elder of them sinking further back into his mind until only the other remained. Where he had once been able to recall every detail to perfection, Arthur realised, much to his horror, that certain things were leaving him. The precise curve of her cupids bow, the exact arch of her brow, the prominence of the beauty spot just below her left ear, they were all things he could only part way recreate in his head.

Why the woman in question seemed to be the underlying current to all of his thoughts that day, Arthur couldn't say but it didn't feel wrong to indulge in them. It was perhaps necessary in fact. The things he could no longer bring to mind about her had been lost out of his lack of maintaining them, after all. It was his fault she was fading, he was letting her, he wasn't doing his job of taking care of her.

A cold hand gripped his heart as the thought rang over on a loop, the air squeezed from his lungs as he lived what Tino had explained to him not twenty-four hours prior. He felt guilt over not caring for a dead woman, that was the extent to which he had driven himself mad. Feeling badly over not paying enough attention to a figment of his imagination. That was surely not the thinking of a sane man.

Heaviness in his stomach, his chest, throughout all of him, a state of something akin to shock held him in place. As though it were the first time he had experienced self-awareness, he pondered frantically upon the implications of it all. He could almost see Tino beside him, his office materialising around him as he stepped only semi willingly into that mind set, feelings both past and present rearing their ugly heads, demanding to be recognised.

Yet there was no one to drag the truth from him. Francis was in the next room, he would surely want to help but Arthur just couldn't explain, nor did he want to. He wanted to go. The need to get out he would feel as Tino closed the door behind him now finding him in his own home.

With no one to tell him he couldn't, though, no therapist there convincing him to stay, he saw no reason not to listen to that impulse. As much as it was surely a step backwards, he chose to run and to isolate himself, thinking it better to be out in the world full of people that didn't care rather than at home with the one that did.

Shifting the cat from his legs, Arthur stood and put on his shoes and coat before speaking to his other half.

"I'm going out for a little while," he somewhat shakily announced from the doorway.

Looking around from his work, Francis regarded him with light confusion.

"Where?" he reasonably wanted to know.

"Just up to town," was all Arthur gave him, an answer but not one that helped too much.

"Alright," Francis saw nothing so odd that it required and interrogation and only added, "Do not get cold."

Not that Arthur heard as he was already letting himself out, oblivious to the frigid smack of static air he walked into.

He sped down the road, away from the darkening clouds on the horizon and towards the only place it seemed to make sense to go. He went to the resting place of woman that had made herself a home within the depths of his subconscious as though making sure she was still there, checking she hadn't risen and come looking for him. He pictured her, a phantom gliding from the cemetery gates to the family home and finding it occupied by strangers. A lonesome spectre that paced the halls of his empty head, seeing the world through his tainted eyes. He wished that on no one, least of all her.

Shaking his head, he reprimanded himself for thinking of her as some sort of ghoul, she had never believed in such things. As far as she was concerned, she was heaven bound. Joining a God he could never believe in, and just as well he couldn't for he'd never have been able to forgive him. Then again, he lamented his cynicism to the notion that they might meet again one day. Had he been able to disregard his sense of reasoning and have faith for the sake of that one simple aspect, he would have done in heartbeat.

But even as he willed himself to think so, his mind told him he had missed his chance to commit, that he had turned his back on it and there was no way to reverse what he had done. His rationality barred him from believing as much as he was surely barred from heaven should it all turn out to be true after all.

Dull thuds sounded on the damp paving with each step as he made his way up the path, each one a knell, the rest of the place deserted as always. No one but the crows and the corpses for company. Even the gate that would usually give out a mournful wail seemed to have nothing to complain about that day as it swung open without a sound. The path turning to packed earth, Arthur entered the fenced off piece of land, past the cracked and crumbling walls of the church hall, between the headstones decorated by decaying flowers and moss, to the one he had come for.

He stopped before it, looking down with heavy eyes, making no attempt to smile or fix his appearance as he normally would have done. Lips tightly sealed, he didn't greet her, had no roses to offer, didn't kneel to fuss over the weeds that had begun to sprout between visits, only staring. In that moment it was as though he had forgotten why he had come. What had he expected to do, force her memory back into the grave and tell her to stay there?

The soil over the coffin no longer looked new or bald in comparison to the rest of the plot, grass having grown over it and blended with the rest of the overgrown lawn long ago, the raised mound where the hole had been filled in having levelled out. His bouquet of white blossoms that he had left well over a month ago were gone, replaced by a small bunch of wilting, violet coloured blooms.

Alfred had been. That was what he always brought but Arthur forgot what they were called. They were simple but pretty, far sweeter in scent and less lavish than roses. In a way they suited her better than the opulence of the rose, despite that having been her favourite. Understated and plainer in their beauty, they were befitting of her modest tastes. Tied together with a thin length of ribbon around the delicate stems, they rested against the headstone.

He wondered if his brother still spoke to her or thought that she listened. If he looked at her gravestone as though it were her face. Whether he touched it like it was her hand, laying still and frail beside her broken body in a hospital bed. The image manifesting itself into action, Arthur reached out a hand to lay atop the smooth marble.

Icy against his fingertips, a shiver ran up his spine. Hard and cold stone, as cold as the skin of her cheek as she lay dead. The sensation of it repulsed him. He drew his hand away and felt it trembling, her face, void of emotion, void of life, etched into his mind.

Dead. She was dead. It didn't matter what he said to her or what flowers he brought or whether he thought he would see her again some day because she was dead, and nothing would change that. For the rest of time she would be in that box under the earth, nothing but photographs and a slab of rock sticking out of the ground with her name on it to show she had been alive at one time and that somewhere in the world there were people that had known her.

People remembered her, of course, but as he had come to see earlier, a memory was hardly the most tangible evidence. The people who remembered would be dead one day too, himself included, and with them would die the last echoes of her existence.

Vision becoming cloudy, he blinked to dislodge the tears that had formed and felt them spill over and down his cheeks, a flood of them soaking his face. He tasted salt on his lips as they ran in random trails and a sob cracked from his throat. The whole of him trembled now, both hands raised to his face, failing to block the sounds of his choking.

Unable to stop, he didn't try to force himself to. Each picture and thought that flashed through his mind only worsened his grief and he simply cried until he had nothing more in him. He cursed himself, cursed the powers that be, cursed every moment she was alive that he hadn't spent with her. He regretted every time he had angered or upset or disappointed her, well aware that it wouldn't change a thing, rage flaring in him at the idea of her spending her every waking moment helping everyone but herself. Selfish though he knew it was, he'd have traded every good deed she had ever done for the chance to tell her he loved her just one more time.

He couldn't though and as much as that made him want to rip out his insides and scream, that was that.

With nothing else inside of him and no more past moments to relive, he stepped away, chest emptied like he had left his heart in place of roses and retraced his steps back out of the desolate place. Not sparing a glance over his shoulder as he closed the gate behind himself, Arthur turned his back on it wordlessly. There was no one there he needed to bid farewell to, he had said his goodbyes enough already.

A smattering of rain told him not to dawdle on his way home, but his pace lacked urgency still. Droplets washing his red stained face, artificial tears following the tracks left there until the clouds had passed and he was at the end of his own road. Between the rows of houses the sun was mid-way through setting, its bleak light tinged with yellow, the slightest hint of colour causing something to stir in Arthur.

He paused to look at it briefly when outside his door, turning his head to acknowledge it as it seemed to have acknowledged him as the only person outside in all the world on that miserable day. Its pale rays were still frozen, however, and gave no warmth to the earth they reached out to and so he didn't hesitate too long before going inside.

"Mauvais chat! Naughty!"

He walked in to angered French coming from the living room and peered around the archway to see what the fuss was about. From the scene he saw it was fairly easy to deduce what had happened, Francis crouched on the floor over a pile of broken glass with Queenie watching on, indifferent to her actions, but he asked for clarification, nonetheless.

"Is everything alright?"

Apparently having been too busy to hear his significant other coming in, Francis looked around at the sound of his voice and tsked.

"She knocked it from the mantelpiece," he told him, picking up pieces of the shattered rose ornament that Arthur had almost forgotten he had purchased, "Lord knows what she was doing up there, the troublemaker."

He directed his irritation at the animal which perched serenely on the arm of the sofa, looking down at him as though it were his place to be cleaning up after her.

"Such a shame," he continued to grumble, more upset over it than Arthur who had yet to react.

The pile glittered on the carpet like diamonds, some pieces bigger than others, edges jagged enough to cut. Seeing the sculpture reduced to sparkling rubble, Arthur wondered why he had bought it in the first place. He hadn't looked at it once since it had been placed on the mantle and now it had gone to waste.

Air flowing laboriously from his lungs, he dragged his feet over the threshold, took the cat into his arms and sat to bury his face in her soft fur. He could hear her tiny heart beating, more rapidly that a human heart, and above the sound of that came a sigh from the floor. The seat next to him dipped and an arm wrapped around his shoulder. Saying nothing at first, Francis took another heavy breath and spoke.

"Will you tell me what it is?" he requested gently.

Raising his face from the soft body that allowed itself to be used as comfort, Arthur sniffed and let his words falter from his mouth.

"I just miss her. I miss mum," he filled in, knowing his other half would understand from the little he gave.

As he had hoped he would, Francis didn't try to extend any words of solace or give some reason for why bad things happened as others might have done, only offering the other arm to clasp his partner tighter. Over the firm shoulder he was pressed to, Arthur looked again, mournfully, at the small puddle of broken glass, reconstructing it in his mind, supposing it was inevitable.

Some things just weren't meant to last.

Another quiet evening had passed, the odd tear escaping to be quickly pressed away by a pair of tender lips, the suns consolatory hue of gold fading into orange, red and finally darkness. Queenie had stuck close to him the way an animal does when their person is not themselves, pawing at his hands to be petted every now and again. She made herself quite at home in between them in the bed, despite Francis' reluctance to have her there, and was the first to fall peacefully asleep, the tip of her tail twitching as she dreamed.

Francis too seemed to have no trouble getting to sleep as the arm he kept draped over his partner's waist grew heavier, as a person's limbs do when they are not in control of them, uncomfortably so. Twisting away so that the dead weight slipped off of him, Arthur turned to face the window. Eyelids firmly closed, he could still see the light of the moon through them and had to focus on the action of doing nothing.

It worked for a while but was short lived as he found himself awake by midnight after barely an hour's rest. Doubly as awake as he had been when getting into bed, he couldn't force himself back to sleep nor could he bear the thought of a night spent waiting for sunrise and so sat up, accepting he would have to do something about it.

Both other occupants of the bed numb to the world, he took great pains in escaping the confines of the duvet and once freed took himself downstairs. The house motionless aside from his gaunt form, traipsing through the hallways like a detached shadow, he needed something to occupy himself with, feeling, as he had done the previous day when he asked Francis to stay with him, the need for company.

Beside the sofa in the living room his laptop sat on the coffee table. Doing some quick maths in his head, he considered whether his brother would answer and decided it was worth a try to call. Blue light flooded the room as he flipped up the screen and laid back along the sofa, head propped up on the arm rest, laptop balanced against his bent knees. The first call rang out and he felt that should have been enough to dissuade him, but he tried again and was surprised when the first tone was cut off by a moving picture coming to the screen.

"Hey, Art. What are you doing up? isn't it, like, three in the morning over there?"

Unable to hold back a smile of relief when his brother's face came into view, Arthur adjusted the screen and shuffled to sit more upright.

"Not quite, but I couldn't sleep," he admitted, "I thought I'd see if you were around. Haven't spoken to you properly in a few days."

"Yeah, sorry about that," the man on the monitor pulled a remorseful face, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, "had a lot going on, you know."

The older man shook his head to show no offence was taken. "You don't have to apologise, I just wanted to see how you were. You look tired," he observed.

"Says you," Alfred retorted.

Supposing he was probably right, Arthur breathed a laugh from his nose.

"Well it's your fault. Keeping me up at night worrying."

"Sounds like a you problem," the younger man jokingly shot back, "How's stuff going over there, though?"

"Everything is fine," was all Arthur had to say, "What about with you?"

"Busy," Alfred groaned, tipping his head to the side to stretch out his neck, "Today was the last day of practice so we went pretty hard. I think I kept up alright, though. At least, I hope I did."

"I'm sure you did just fine, Al," Arthur assured him, catching the slight glint of self-doubt in the tilt of his lips.

"Probably," the other replied, "Have to wait and see. You know I head over to Paul and Linda tomorrow, right?"

Too drained to feel a spark of anything towards the foreign couple, the elder Kirkland found what he was saying came out with an unintentional bite.

"Yes, I remember."

He hadn't meant it to sound vicious, but it did, something that Alfred picked up on.

"How come you don't like them?" he chuckled, curious.

Caught, Arthur didn't bother to try and deny his obvious feelings, biting the inside of his cheek as he exhaled, "I just can't trust them."

"Hm, that's fair I guess," Alfred contemplated with a shrug, "but try not to stress over it, dude."

"I'm not stressing over anything," the older man denied, prompting a raised brow from his sibling.

"You sure about that?" he called out.

"I'm fine," Arthur ensures him, looking to change the subject, "I went to visit mum today, you didn't say you'd been recently."

"I thought I should before I left," the other mused, "Felt bad. I should go more often."

It was something he would have agreed with a few weeks ago but Arthur shook his head, knowing better.

"You shouldn't think like that, it doesn't matter how often you go so long as you think about her sometimes," he paused, "You do think about her, don't you?"

"All the time," even when his smile was sad it managed to radiate the warmth of summer.

"It's just that you never really mention her," he pointed out, feeling badly for doing so.

Another tightened expression crossed his brother's features and he glanced away before speaking.

"Well, me and Mattie do but, I don't know man, don't feel bad but, we're always kind of scared of upsetting you," he confessed.

Eyebrows lifting, Arthur was taken aback slightly.

"Why would you be afraid of that?" he enquired, brow lowering to furrow in confusion.

Uncomfortable but wanting to tell the truth, Alfred squirmed a little more then answered, "Whenever we mention her you just get all…uptight and defensive and stuff. It's like you think we're slandering her or something."

"I don't think that," Arthur immediately contested.

"No, I know you don't really but, I mean, she was human. Sometimes she did stuff wrong. Nobody's perfect so you shouldn't try to make out that they are, that's all," the younger sibling pondered with unexpected depth.

Something intelligent coming from his younger brother's mouth shouldn't have been out of the ordinary to Arthur, but Alfred just never seemed the deep-thinking type. Time and again he proved the contrary, however.

"You're right," he agreed.

"That's just how I see it," the other pointed out, raising a hand to cup his right shoulder and roll the joint in its socket.

"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Arthur picked up on the repeated action, concern pooling in him.

"Linebacker ploughed right into me, the asshole," Alfred swore, "It's not that bad though, could have been a lot worse, the guy was huge."

Worry worsening despite his brother's reassurances, Arthur suggested, "Is there somewhere you can get it looked at?"

"It's really not a big deal, probably just pulled something," the other rejected, still holding the injured body part.

"But what if it is, Al. You don't want this to turn out to be something serious that'll hurt you later on," the more anxious of the two continued to fuss, "that's how careers end early."

The last statement seemed to get to the younger man as he let out a sigh and lowered his hand, tentatively letting his shoulder drop.

"Yeah, I guess," he conceded, "I'll go tomorrow."

"Please do," Arthur fretted one last time, "and call us before you leave, as well."

"Sure thing," Alfred offered a smile which was returned back, the call ending and leaving the house silent again.

Closing down the screen, Arthur left the laptop on the coffee table, for a moment considering just sleeping on the sofa before thinking it better he got back to bed. He didn't want Francis to wake up in a panic the next morning.

Slipping between the sheets, taking excruciating care not to rouse either of the two bodies already entwined within them, he settled back down. Flat on his back, the man beside him shifted, mumbling something in his native language that Arthur didn't quite catch and shoving his face deeper into his pillow. With a light hand, he brushed the fine strands that tickled the stubbled face behind the man's ear, caressing his jaw then letting his fingers slip away.

* * *

The pacing is very much off in this chapter, I fully accept that. To be honest it was a bit of a rush job. I wanted to get it out in a month to stick with my schedule but I also wanted to keep it under my word limit of 13,000 per chapter which means something I wanted to put in here will be in the next chapter. This whole story has turned out to be a project way more massive than I had ever thought it would be and I hope the fact that I'm getting kind of tired of it doesn't show. Not to say I don't care anymore, I do, but sometimes you just hit a wall.

Favourite, follow and review (I may not reply but I read every single one about a thousand times).


	14. Chapter 14

Warning - This chapter contains some detailed description of body image and body image issues.

* * *

Francis was already gone, having slipped out unnoticed, by the time that Arthur woke, however, he was not alone. Opening his eyes to a room lit with broad daylight, he could see clearly a tiny, sleeping face not five inches from his own. Queenie had migrated from her designated spot at the foot of the bed to fill the space at his side, her body curled into a loose ball with her legs outstretched, chin perched on her forearm and blissfully oblivious. Sunlight poured through the window and illuminated her pale whiskers, highlighted the fur, like peach fuzz, that bulked out her delicate frame. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the rest of her absolutely still, as he gave himself a moment to get used to the day.

His back to the window, Arthur half rolled his upper body to look out of it and see a sky of lofty blue with the occasional pure, white cloud, zipping by at tremendous speed. As pleasantly surprising as such a sight was, he felt unprepared to face it and fell back onto his front, burying his head into his pillow. Rubbing his face against the dirty linen, an unintentional grunt came from his nose, followed by an exhale.

Shoulders stiff, he arched his back and pushed himself up only to lower himself down again onto his side. Folding an elbow under his head, his gaze rested over the little animal that shared his bed. Her pink nose expelled air that disturbed the fibres of the bedsheet, blowing them like the branches he could hear thrashing outside, and the pads of her paws were exposed. The tiny buds looked so soft he couldn't restrain himself from reaching out to poke one with his index finger, gently pressing the warm skin.

It retracted immediately, her paw curling into a ball and drawing into her chest as she squirmed to find a new position. Flipping over, she stretched out again, reaching her legs as far as she could, her feet spreading apart to reveal her rose-coloured jellybeans, and settled down once more, clearly not ready to even contemplate getting up, unlike Arthur. His hand still outstretched, he stroked the end of her tail with a roughened finger then, exhaling, sat up.

The covers crumpled around his waist, a chill running across his bare arms so that the downy hair on them stood on end. Ice came in on the breeze through the gap in the window seal, a sliver of it that froze the whole room and blew away the meagre warmth the day offered. As Arthur got up and went to the window, he saw a blockade of slate tinged clouds making their way swiftly closer and assumed he would see rain by midday. Standing close enough that his breath fogged over the glass it seemed the cold was seeping through the surface itself, permeating the solid pane, slipping in by any means possible just to reach him.

He moved back and watched the patch of condensation fade away, shrinking and disappearing, before he went to make his way out of the room. Body still warming up, his legs moved rigidly, one of his knees aching for some reason, and things kept clicking. He wondered why his physical being seemed to rebel against him but, catching sight of himself in the mirror, he supposed it was revolting against the misuse it had suffered, and justly so. There was barely anything of it.

Looking in disgust at his arms, thin as wires, his elbows stuck out like knots on an old oak tree and the skin was rough as bark. His trousers hung low in the front with nothing there to keep them in place, the elastic too loose and sagging pathetically to show off his sharply jutting hip bones. Lip curling, Arthur tugged them up only for them to fall back down, his skeletal frame slumping dejectedly as he was painfully reminded of his appearance.

Francis had been polite the day before. He looked like utter shit, like he could keel over and die at any second, like he'd been dead for several hours already. A corpse growing desiccated as it awaited burial. Bringing himself a little more upright, he pulled the fabric of his shirt tight against himself to show the body beneath it, seeing that the excess fabric he clutched was enough to clothe another small person. He pulled it off over his head to be confronted by the full extent of his actions, a dull pang resounding in him at the sight.

His stomach was practically concaved, and he didn't need to squint to be able to count each of his ribs individually. When he bent, the notches of his spine rippled and protruded under his skin like some sea serpent beneath the surface of the ocean, and everything was a pallid shade of white. The mournful face that gaped back at him seemed to be asking, with exhaustion darkened eyes, what had happened.

He had never had an athletic build and knew he could never hope to have the physique of Alfred or Matthew, it just wasn't the way he was. Always scrawny, small, arms and legs out of proportion to his torso, too long and gangly to ever be used for anything competitive, not that he ever really tried. He had been on the football team for a few months back in secondary school but had quit when he realised they only kept him around for some kind of a joke, unwilling to be the subject of their mockery despite the fact he was actually a decent player and very much enjoyed the game.

No matter what he did at that awkward age when everyone else seemed to be growing into themselves, he had never been able to put on weight, something he was sure many people envied him for. 'Allergic to calories, he is,' the old women at church would joke whilst force feeding him another slice of cake, to which he would forge a laugh and turn red with frustration. Although he couldn't exactly say he had put in a lot of effort to improve, preferring most anything else to exercise, too self-conscious to join a gym, and developing terrible eating habits early on.

However many times Francis told him he would always be beautiful in his eyes, the proof said differently. It looked back at him, presenting itself, plagued by life. Almost too detached to believe it was really himself, he raised a hand, watching his non-self do the same, and ran it through his hair, his fingers becoming snagged on tangles. Tiring himself with the one simple movement, he considered sitting where he stood and remaining there the rest of the day, but his body didn't follow his thoughts, taking itself to the bathroom instead.

He dropped his trousers to the floor and stepped inside the shower, turning it on to its most powerful setting. A glacial stream spurted from the shower head, pounding him in the back and quickly heating up. The frigid water barely affected him, however, finding himself already inhabited by the cold, full to the brim with cool, aching apathy.

The water grew warmer, to the point that steam was rising from the floor, but it wasn't enough, it made no impact on his frozen core. He increased the temperature and remained stationary under the boiling downpour, his back burning from it then going numb. His skin started to emanate vapour and turned a deep pink, cheeks flushing. Allowing the water to scorch him, he stayed in place, as though aiming to sear off his skin, waiting for it to blister and slip from the muscle underneath. Like a phoenix, he would rise from the damp ashes as himself anew and start again. That seemed the only way to fix things sometimes.

Gasping for breath by the time he got out into the room shrouded in mist, he dried off in the warmth of the bathroom and watched how the translucent waves rolled into the hall when he opened the door. He neglected to dry his hair, droplets dampening his back in thin trails, and focused on covering himself with layers of clothing yet the knowledge of what was under them wouldn't be shifted from the forefront of his thoughts.

The weather had turned while he as in the bathroom, denoting that either he had been in there a while or it would be fickle all day, the sky having gone back to the grey hued mass characteristic of the time of year. A gale still buffered next door's tree around, the sound of it whipping violently enough to make a person fear it may be ripped out at the roots. Shadows now cast over the room it appeared drenched in a gloom, Arthur's own mood reflected in everything he laid eyes on.

Tugging the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands, he drifted downstairs, leaving Queenie where she had gone back to sleep amongst the crumpled covers. He turned on the heating but left off the lights, desiring to wallow in the dreariness of it all, and switched on the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he supposed he should at least attempt to honour Francis' wishes and so went to the cabinet to take out two slices of bread which he slid into the toaster.

He stared through the window while he waited at the wet concrete of the street outside and realised a futile sprinkling of rain had begun to fall. The toaster popped up first, barely having warmed the bread through and Arthur pressed it down again, the kettle snapping off just as he did so. Distracted, he turned his attention towards it but was quickly reminded of his breakfast by the smell of burning. Cursing under his breath, he ejected the singed bread, fingers smarting as he pulled them out onto a plate. He'd have laughed at his own ineptitude in the kitchen had he the mind to.

Rather than trying again as he probably should have done, he buttered the black splotched slices and took them with his tea over to the kitchen table. He sat facing the window, damp warmth from his mug moistening his cheek. Rubbing at it with his sleeve, the wiry fabric scratched off some flakes of dried skin that were clinging loosely to his jaw. His face itched, felt too tight as though stretched over another person's skull that was too large for it.

For a while he looked at the small meal he had managed to prepare, head propped up on his fist, no inkling of hunger to spur him on only a languid sense of obligation. Picking up one of the pieces, his nose wrinkled at the smell. It was only bread, he told himself. One of the blandest foodstuffs known to man. Yet despite the fact that it tasted of practically nothing the scent was overwhelming, jumping down his throat and tying his insides in knots. Raising it to his lips, he took a bite out of the charred corner, crumbs scattering over the table top as it crunched. He ground it between his teeth, the flavour obscured by the staleness of the atmosphere, and swallowed it.

The feel of it against the walls of his oesophagus, scathing, made him want to wretch. He didn't, though, as he managed to get it all the way down where it settled in his stomach, a heavy clump that weighed him down. Repeating the process until the first slice was done with, he washed away the cindery residue that coated his mouth with a sip of tea and picked up the second piece. Half way through, he calculated how many bites it would take to polish off the meal and considered whether it would be easier to force it down in fewer larger bites or more small ones.

A saddened sigh came from his nose at how ridiculous his thought process sounded. He didn't know when he had started thinking that way, but he realised that if he didn't stop it would only continue to be another hinderance to him. Another burden added to the process of being okay again that he didn't need. It seemed the simplest of all his numerous problems to solve and so, with a dormant steadfastness, he took a bite.

The texture of damp paper, the bread disintegrated in his mouth, coagulated butter coating his tongue. It didn't taste like food to him, which was probably why his body rejected it immediately. Instinctually, he spat out the soggy lump back onto the plate, dropping the rest of the slice and wiping the grease left on his fingertips onto his trousers. The scent of it seemed stronger, almost like it was rotting, and he took the plate over to the waste bin, scraping the perfectly edible leftovers into it.

His hands were clammy and still felt as though there were a sheen of oil over them and so he washed them in the sink, scrubbing any remains off them obsessively. Splashing some water onto his face to wash anything that might have been left there too, he shuddered, the flavour still in his mouth. Through the window he saw that the rain had been brief, having stopped already, and patches of blue showed themselves a little way off in the direction the breeze blew from.

Pulling up the collar of his jumper to rub his wet face with the inside of it, he breathed in the dusty smell it emanated. Unused and aged, it was a piece of clothing he had owned for years, perhaps it had even been Francis' at one point. The thick material soaked up the water, but Arthur didn't lower it, staying within the woollen cocoon where it was warm. He inhaled deeply like he tried to draw that warmth inside of himself.

He felt alone. A hard kind of loneliness, one that wrapped his heart and made it ache, one that didn't ease up at the thought of his other half returning home later that night because he knew he would still feel alone then. Alone in the world, as every individual was. No one could ever be completely understood by anyone but themselves, after all. The thought struck at his hollowed chest and resounded around its walls.

Interactions ran through his mind, inconsequential conversations with cashiers, times he had laughed at something a friend had said, moments he should have found poignant. They may as well not have taken place, they had all meant nothing. No more than words and looks, no connection to be found. None that brought him any kind of comfort then, anyway. Perhaps he would find differently the next time they came to him but through the emptiness that settled over him they seemed pointless.

The bleak light broke through the holes in the material he had over his face and he lowered it to stare directly at its source, a washed-out sun hiding from view, unclear to him. Weakened beams of flaccid light tore through the clouds with some difficulty, sawing through them like a dull blade. It didn't hurt his eyes to look at as though he were still looking at it through something. Everything felt as though there were a layer between him and it.

Tea growing cool on the table behind him, he took the mug with him to the back door, opening it and sitting on the floor just inside. Immune to the cold as it already resided inside of him, he leant against the doorframe, head dropping back, with his legs draw up to his chest. Resting the mug on top of one knee, his hands sweated against the warm china. The tendons were visibly raised beneath the skin, attaching his long, inelegant fingers to the rest of his hand, like crane flies, all legs with tiny, crushable bodies.

Adjusting his slippery hold, he couldn't help but somewhat marvel at how ugly they were. The misshapen knuckles of his right hand were now permanently stained a darker colour than the rest of his skin, a bruise that would never completely fade. A nice reminder of his recklessness, though he doubted it would deter him from making the same mistakes again at some point. But it was in-keeping with the multitude of other scars and scrapes that decorated the abused appendages. A sunken mark below his left ring finger, a burn that had healed awkwardly above his palm, the tips of his fingers tough as leather and always peeling.

He drank his tepid beverage in gulps, only wanting to wash away the taste that was still lodged in the back of his mouth and between his teeth. The azure sky seemed not to know whether it was coming or going, patches showing through that were stifled but then emerged once more. A gust that was capable of shifting the mountains blustered into the hall, disturbing the pages on the calendar and knocking the junk mail onto the carpet, however, could not shift the despondency that had taken root in Arthur. It remained unflinching, far too contented with the burrow it had dug itself deep within its host to be bothered by the elements.

Gazing out over the grey lawn, blades of grass growing unevenly, his arm hair stuck on end although he didn't shiver. He could barely feel the brutal slap that swept his hair back, living only as a body with nothing inside, no nerves to sense with, no brain to think with, no heart to feel with, though he knew better than to think that was how human biology worked. Emotions came from the brain, they were chemicals, they shouldn't have been tricky things to understand. He could control what he thought, or so he told himself in the moment, and so he wondered why he should be so incapable of mastering anything else that his brain came up with.

Though that was the issue, he came to see. He couldn't control his thoughts any better than anything else. Whatever was going on in his head governed him. Briefly entertaining the idea of allowing this to continue, he supposed that was what he had been doing and the thought of giving up on life was more enticing than he should have found it.

Not to have been confused with the idea of giving up his life, that was something very different. He didn't want to die, only he wanted to not worry about living anymore. To carry on as he was and get used to it rather than trying, so consistently and so hard, to get absolutely nowhere. It was tiring and sometimes, a lot of the time, he really had no clue as to what or who he was doing it all for. He would tell himself he wanted to get better for himself and for his loved ones, but he questioned whether he meant that. He was doing it so that it would be done and over with, however, he knew it would never be finished so that brought him right back to the question of why was he trying?

He wanted to smoke, it would have cleared his thinking, but even if there were still cigarettes in the house, he didn't have the initiative to go and find them. His limbs could move but he didn't know why he would want to bother. For that he would need energy that he didn't have and didn't want. Too hard to accumulate, too easy to waste, it was an unfair transaction and he felt cheated.

From behind, the soft padding of paws sounded, and he glanced back to see Queenie approaching, eyes round and intrigued by the open door. He planned on letting her out at some point, thinking it cruel to confine her in the small abode, but wanted to wait until Francis was present and so contradicted his thoughts, standing with the help of the door frame.

Spilling the stone-cold tea out into the drain beside the door, he closed it, much to the cat's disappointment, and went back inside. He left his cup in the sink and continued to ignore the animal at his feet as he went across to the living room too consumed in himself to pay her much mind. She followed nonetheless and took up her seat beside him while he opened a book to point his unregistering eyes towards.

That strange, solid, immovable force of misery oppressed him the entire day. A complete absence of joy, as though it had never existed in him. Even the possibility of it was robbed from him with an assuredness that no happiness could come to him and any he had experienced before was a lie. The air was thin, the sofa was under him and everything around him was real, but he felt none of it, saw it as though it had only just come into existence the moment he laid eyes upon it. Before then there was nothing and once he looked away there was nothing again, an ego-centric view of the world but the only one he could wrap his depression wrought head around.

Somewhere inside he was sure he was sad, his body told him so at least as a single bead would occasionally drop from his chin and soak into the page he held open, but above all he was numbed. Deadened, uncaring, thoroughly at the mercy of whatever his addled thoughts suggested to him, which thankfully was not a lot. They would most likely have to scream for him to hear across the vacant tundra inside of his head, in any case.

He thought he ate but he wasn't sure. A blurred memory of standing in the kitchen and staring through the window with food in his hand resurfaced several times, but he may have been thinking about that morning. There had been rain, scoring the window like watery claw marks, but when he looked outside to confirm his thoughts, he saw no trace of it. The ceiling light was on, which was a clue that he had gotten up at some point, but the sun had come to antagonise him. It clashed horribly with the artificial light and he found it revolting.

Time progressed in chunks, unmoving in between the moments when Arthur was not observing it and skipping forward when he did to show that it would not be bound by his introspective view of the world. Not even when Francis came back to him did his mindset change. He appeared out of the ether of the unseen and materialised only when in his eyeline, was tangible only when touching him. Only when Alfred called some hours later did he manage to pull himself together a little but even then, their conversation came through in snippets.

"Yeah, I'm about to head down to the station, just saying bye to the guys here first," the younger man, clad in the school's colours, informed with quite the chaos audible in the background.

"How long did you say the trip was?" Francis' attentiveness made up for Arthur's lack thereof.

"Like, two hours I think?" Alfred seemed unsure but unfazed, half of his attention set on what was going on around him.

"It is strange to think how huge America truly is," the older man mused.

"I know right, it's crazy." Something was shouted from off screen which caused Alfred to laugh, shaking his head, and respond with a joking "Fuck off, dude."

Their comradery was palpable, and Alfred was clearly enthralled in the thick of it, beaming as Arthur had seen him do so many times yet it stung to know it had nothing to do with him. In a few hours he would be even further away and with strangers that he was for some reason willing to show the same affection and respect he showed the people who had raised him. Arthur was glad he seemed to have lost the ability to change his facial expression as surely the bitterness would have shown on it.

He uttered his goodbyes, his brother too preoccupied to notice his input was amiss and deflected the concerns his partner eased onto him. Whether he achieved his goal of three meals that day was debateable, but he ate at the kitchen table that evening while Francis apologised profusely for the fact he would be working on Christmas eve.

Night passed to uncover a day like the last that had taken with it whatever force had been so stifling the day before. Like it was stripped from him while he slept, Arthur woke to find himself vulnerable to all that was around him. The cotton sheets that entombed him were too rough, the pale light blinding, the rain that intermittently picked up like the sound of gunfire. Each thing he came across was obstructive, intrusive and overwhelming, they wanted to hurt him. He felt weak all over, both inside and out. At least through callousness he had found resilience but that was gone, the hardness had softened, melted and was dispersed through his body. The cold that had resided in him now flowed through his veins and gave him frostbite.

Craving the touch of another, someone warm, he pulled Queenie to him and carried her with him, squeezing her so tight she wriggled to be free. Still lonely in a way that company couldn't satiate, he liked to believe it would. He reviewed all the same instances he had the day previous and this time lamented that he had not gone out of his way to prolong them. Recalled all the times a person had shown him compassion he had failed to return or opened up to him while he remained closed. Thoughts and memories and feeling came and pecked and ate what he left exposed.

Maybe it wasn't that nobody could ever be understood, and it was just him. The idea was horrifying but it made too much sense. There he was, pitying himself over how he felt so disconnected when he was the one who was to blame, he wasn't capable of it. Something in him was flawed. Everyone else in the world seemed happy because they were, they knew what they were doing, and he felt as though he was alone because he was.

His mind processing what his chest was calling to him with forlorn cries, his eyes became wet and expressed his sorrow. It filled him completely, his form just a vessel to hold such anguish. Sadness was no longer a lack of its opposite but a mass in its own right, one that bulged and pleaded and pained. He was there only to accommodate it.

If he was bored then he could try out the paint samples, Francis had told him as he left that morning and in between bouts of debilitating tears Arthur thought he might try. Three cans on the kitchen counter sat unopened and he managed to carry them through to the living room, almost buckling under their weight. He laid down some old tea towels under where he planned to test them on the wall and cracked the lid off the first shade.

The smell knocked him back, reeling from the chemicals, and he had to turn his face away to snap off the tops of the other two cans. Allowing them to air out a little first, he studied his partner's choices, seeing he had gone with blue after all. One muted and rather dull, one mixed with green to give an off cyan hue and one pale, barely more than a slightly tinged white. None of them were especially inspiring.

Dipping his brush into the viscous liquid, he didn't bother to wipe off the excess so that a trail of drips followed it to the wall where he smeared the colour with aimless strokes. It was thick enough that none of the dirty beige behind it showed through and he noticed a cat hair had become incapsulated in it. Without bothering to pick it out, he did the same with the other two colours, each of them seeming less different from one another as he sat staring at them.

Eyes glazing over as he watched a drip crawling downwards, he reached out to stop it, catching it on his finger just before it stained the skirting board. He studied it, the way it formed a perfect pearl, the way that teardrops looked in cartoons, and felt a sheen obscure his vision at the thought. Covering the pots with their lids again, he went and washed the brushes and coerced himself to eat something as he sniffed back wet chokes.

He closed the curtains to block out the light, to fester in the dark, clinging onto the cat for as long as she would allow until Francis returned to take her place. Barely able to contain his innards as tender hands stroked his hair, he didn't care that he missed the call from his brother, needing what was present to keep him sane.

Of course, Francis was scared to leave the next day. Arthur could feel his gaze upon him as he lay feigning sleep but eventually the sound of a sigh brushed his ear, as did a prolonged kiss, then he was left to himself. Opening his eyes at the click of the latch downstairs he stared at the wall, his feelings not yet having decided themselves. While he waited for them to do so he showered and dressed then took Queenie downstairs in his arms, feeling himself veer towards despair.

Setting her down on the kitchen counter, as Francis had already asked him not to do, he leant his elbows onto it, meeting her eyes. She planted herself down and blinked at him slowly, tail wrapping itself around her haunches. A shallow breath came from Arthur's nose as he looked back past drooping lids. Able to read her owner better than most humans could, the little creature came forward, stretching her neck out to softly bump her head against his.

Almost coaxing a smile from him, the action defrosted something in Arthur the slightest bit and he reciprocated by pushing against her before stepping away. Her owlish eyes followed him as she paced the counter a few steps then stopped, diverting her sight to the hallway, pre-empting the unexpected arrival.

A knock at the door confused Arthur and his head turned towards the hall, the rest of him unmoving. Another short rapping a few moments later prompted him to react, moving jerkily to the archway to peer around it. The blurred shape of a person darkened the frosted glass in the front door and shifted in place waiting for him to acknowledge them, which he was reluctant to do. They continued to wait, however, telling Arthur it wasn't just some random delivery person and so he went to find out who it was.

"There you are, I thought you were still asleep," Eliza greeted him with criticism and a smile, "I was about to let myself in and give you a wakeup call."

She had a habit of springing into a person's reality with no warning and it never failed to throw Arthur off. He was sure she did it on purpose.

"Liz, hi…wh, um," he faltered.

Chuckling softly, she stepped inside without closing the door behind her. "Still half asleep then," she commented, "No worries, we'll fix that."

"Sorry?" Arthur croaked back, clearing his throat but finding something still stuck as his voice hadn't been used properly for the last few days.

"Here, put these on," she held out a pair of shorts and Arthur noticed she looked ready to head to the gym, hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight he was surprised she could still blink and outfitted fully in spandex.

"Why?" he asked despite the answer the evidence pointed to.

"You're coming with me," she announced, assuredness in her commanding tone, "because apparently you can't be left on your own."

She looked him directly in the eye with an air of autocracy, expecting not to be argued with, and Arthur caught on to what must have happened.

"I don't know what Francis has said to you, but-" he began heavily but Elizabeta seemed in no mood for it.

"Francis told me he is worried about you being by yourself and knowing what you are like I don't take that lightly," she emphasised, her expression as stern as her words.

"Alright, but-" Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"You can put your butt in these and come with me," Eliza thrust the shorts towards him again, turning her chin up, daring him to resist further.

Knowing it would be unwise to do so, the younger of the two took the clothing, arm dropping to his side.

"Where are you taking me?" her impulsiveness may have been something he quite admired but not when he was dragged into her hairbrained plans with no notice.

"We're going to the park, you need to get out of the house," she told him.

"It's freezing out there," Arthur complained, forehead creasing slightly.

The biting chill that entered through the front door didn't bother Eliza, however, and a cheeky simper quirked her lips.

"Don't worry, I'll warm you up," she lilted, waiting for her grudging companion to get changed.

Raising an eyebrow at her, Arthur was told no more and shook his head as he relented, going up the stairs to put on the shorts. He had to pull in the waist as far as it would go, and he wasn't exactly pleased about having his legs on show but accepted the will of his chaperone and went downstairs in them.

"Good, now put some shoes on and let's go," Eliza instructed, edging her way towards the door, "something comfortable. And leave your coat."

Following orders, Arthur rummaged in the cupboard under the stairs for a few minutes until he found a pair of tattered trainers. They were only shoes he had that weren't office wear or boots so they would have to do, although the soles were worn paper thin.

Eliza was already halfway down the drive and so he pulled them on, tugging the laces tight then grabbing his phone to trail after her. Speeding along the path to catch up, he stumbled to keep pace, the hair on his legs standing on end.

"I hope you're feeling fit today," Eliza jibed as they turned a corner, stretching her arms out in front of her and above her head, twisting her curvaceous waist.

"No, not particularly," Arthur groused, thoroughly unimpressed.

His protest fell on deaf ears, though, and they continued speedily on their way, along the backstreets to the closest entrance of the town park.

A reasonable size for an inner-city space, a gentle slope led up to the gate and the path continued inwards, snaking out of view over the top of an incline. Further over there was a woodland area and the dank scent of it drifted past like the clouds overhead, half soaked in grey and ready to turn on a dime. The shadow cast down from them loomed over the field and the ground was softened underfoot, bubbles of settled moisture still clinging to the evergreen plant life.

Coming to a stop just inside Eliza bent at the hips, reaching down to touch her toes, then stood upright to shake out her sculpted legs.

"Ready?" she glanced to Arthur expectantly.

"What?" he looked over just in time to see her take a vaulting stride forward, leaving him behind to call after her, "Liz!"

"Come on," was all he heard in return as she jogged on without looking back.

"Liz, stop, what are you doing?" Arthur frowned and walked after her.

She refused to slow down, turning her head to look over her shoulder at him. "I'm jogging," she stated as though it was obvious as, in fairness, it was, "I agreed to look after you, but I still have a schedule to keep."

"Eliza, I am not chasing after you," Arthur contradicted his own stubbornness, taking a few jaunty hopping steps to try and catch up.

But she was too far ahead, already about to disappear over the ridge. Without missing a beat, she spun around, jogging backwards, to speak to him.

"Well, if you put in some effort you wouldn't need to," she badgered him.

Before he could rebuttal, she focused her attention in the direction they were headed and accelerated, the sight of her swishing ponytail vanishing over the little mound.

Growing out of breath simply from walking uphill, Arthur' forehead creased in mild exasperation and he hurried after her, stopping at the top of the incline as the other kept going.

"Elizabeth, stop it," he demanded in his most authoritative tone, as though she had ever listened to it.

Ignoring him completely, he watched her reach the other side and begin her decent, bobbing from his sight once more.

Realising his efforts to halt her were pointless, a misty sigh of came from his nostrils and he glanced around himself, making sure the coast was clear, then went after her. Pain instantly shot through both of his ankles from the impact of connecting with the paving harder than they were used to and the rest of his body seemed to be in shock as he began jogging just fast enough to reach Eliza.

She heard him approaching and looked back, lips curled upward, but didn't make things an easier for him.

"See, you're perfectly capable," she encouraged, "Just remember to breath."

"Why are you doing this to me?" he beseeched her, panting from their gentle pace.

"Because you need it," Eliza prescribed, showing no mercy as she sped up, expecting Arthur to do the same.

Without much of a choice and too winded to oppose her, the unwilling participant followed suite. His limbs slowly starting to understand what was going on, they complied begrudgingly and propelled him faster, arms swinging, legs finding a rhythm. Sweat had begun to dampen his back, the t-shirt he wore under his jumper sticking to his skin, and his face became hot despite how his cheeks stung from the cold.

Through the soles of his shoes he could feel every pebble and crack in the crumbling path, the unprotected heels of his feet hurting from repeatedly smacking into the concrete. Shockwaves from each hit reverberated up his legs, his brittle bones quaking, the tendons that attached them straining. It was the first time he had used his body for anything other than just being alive in years and it was not best pleased with the sudden exploitation.

So focused on controlling his physical being, Arthur almost missed Eliza swerving off of the main path onto a dirt track that diverted into a cluster of trees.

"Come on, we'll go through here," she urged on.

Stumbling as he changed directions, the man that struggled close behind her could hardly hear her voice over the pounding in his ears. Blood raced through his system to fuel his unused muscles, tickling his extremities and heating his neck. His insides burned too, like the friction of air being drawn through his arid throat had sparked a fire in his lungs. A brief smattering of rain trickled down through the bare canopy overhead, a drop or two landing on his skin and he was surprised they didn't sizzle away on contact.

"Keep your head up, stop looking at the ground," Eliza's advice accompanied the sound of water on leaves.

"It's starting to rain," Arthur somehow found the breath to gasp hoping to discourage her, to which Eliza gave a short laugh.

"You've lived on this miserable little island for twenty-four years, you should be used to it by now. Stop looking for excuses," she chastised. Her obstinance was surely a match for his own, if not worse.

He followed her guidance, strenuously lifting his hanging head so that air could more freely flow and concentrated on drawing it in and expelling it evenly to distract from the searing agony elsewhere. The tautness of his muscles grew slowly more relaxed and moving became easier as he didn't have to think about what his legs were doing, feeling them move automatically. His scrambled vision cleared as his breathing stabilised and he looked around himself to see that the sun had graced them with an appearance.

Dappled silver weaved between the tangled branches above and scattered the path ahead in a crosshatched pattern, glinting between them as Arthur went. Rays of light caught the droplets that rested on the shrubbery so that the woods around him sparkled and the sweet plapping of water on earth was calming above the sound of his own rasping. If he listened to it hard enough his heartbeat could synchronise, he imagined.

He wasn't able to enjoy the serenity of nature for too long, however, as his body screamed at him to stop. After the abuse he had put them through, his lungs weren't willing to cater to his sudden fervour and decided when enough was enough. The dryness in his throat had worked its way further down and scratched at the inside of his ribs, clawing to be let out, which he it was as a coughing fit caused him to halt.

Doubling over with his hands on his knees, he sputtered until his eyes watered and heard the footsteps ahead of him slow then turn back on themselves.

"Alright, I get the message," Eliza chuckled pityingly, her shadow darkening the ground at his feet, "That's enough for now."

"You think I'm ever doing that again?" Arthur balked, looking up to her amused face.

She reached over to pat him gently on the back with sympathy in her smile. "At least you tried," she commended, "I'll buy you tea as a sorry."

According to her there was a café somewhere in the park not far from where they were, and she led the way. On wavering legs, Arthur walked alongside her, glad she was no longer in a hurry, and felt his body cooling rapidly. Like steam, the heat rose from his skin and seemed to take with it the toxins that polluted his mind as, although his bones felt as though they had tripled in weight, something about him was lighter.

They wandered along the overarched avenue through the speckled shade that came through at an angle, the sun having passed its midway point an hour or two prior. Taking the scenic route to enjoy the unseasonal weather to its fullest, they made it to their destination and headed directly in, Arthur choosing a table that looked out onto the green while Eliza ordered. Gazing distractedly through the decoratively framed window as she approached, the lowering sun caught the residual raindrops that freckled the glass so that they gleamed in shades of amber and blue, like jewels.

"How are your legs feeling?" Eliza enquired as she placed their drinks down and slid into the chair opposite her friend.

"Not too bad but I'm sure I'll be in agony tomorrow," Arthur half joked in return, smiling sardonic passive aggression across at her.

A twinge of guilt curved her mouth. "I'm sorry, but you needed to get out. It isn't good for a person to hole themselves away the way that you do," she wouldn't show too much remorse, standing firmly with her intentions.

"A walk would have done just fine," the other countered, finding his arms shook slightly as he picked up his cup, nerves still jittering with adrenaline.

"Nonsense, you need to get your blood pumping," the far fitter of the two enthused, "You know, if you don't use your body every now and again it will start shutting down on you. You'll thank me for this tomorrow."

Snorting a doubtful laugh, Arthur raised a sweat dampened eyebrow. "We'll see about that," he tempered.

"If you continue not to look after yourself, I am always happy to step in," she kindly threatened. "Honestly, you're so busy worrying about everything around you most of the time that you-"

"That I don't look after myself," Arthur cut in to finish for her with a pointed look, "I know."

Eliza's thin brows drew together, her seriousness softening. "Then do something about it," she softly pushed.

"I'm working on it," the younger of the two breathed earnestly.

"Good, I'm glad," his counterpart expressed. Dumping several sugars into her frothy drink, she took one of the thin, wooden sticks to stir it and tutted to herself as she did so. "I just got these done," she complained with mild irritation as she examined her muted pink nails, the middle one of which was chipped.

Unaware that she was being studied with some amusement, she fussed over the flaking polish, her full lips tightening as she picked at it further. She was a far cry from the Elizabeta Arthur had first met years ago, an elegant woman having taken the place of the tom-boy he had been friends with at school.

He could remember a time she would scoff at the girls that did their makeup in the toilets at break, herself covered in mud from playing sports with the boys. They would argue over whose team she would be on as she could outpace any one of them, plus most of them had a crush on her.

Not to say that she had changed in spirit as she still very much had a wild streak to her that ran straight through her core. A vivacity that could never be fully contained by the pristine image she liked to present.

"You've changed," he muttered musingly, lips creeping up at the corners.

The woman he observed ceased her grooming and frowned a little. "I don't think so," she rejected.

"Yes, you have," Arthur argued, his grin stretching at the pout that formed on her mouth.

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not thirteen anymore," she apologised sarcastically.

Arthur couldn't help but snigger at her defensiveness as he shook his head. "It's not an insult, I was just thinking," he justified, resting his head in his hand to look at her oval face from an angle. "I suppose I only notice it because you're away so much. It's like you leave one person and come back another."

She half smiled with him at the thought, taking a breath before she replied.

"I think that might all be done now," she considered, "I've seen what I wanted to see. Time to do something new."

"Settling down?" Arthur was surprised.

"Perhaps," Eliza hummed, diverting her eyeline to the view beyond the window where the sun had started nestling below the sloping hill.

Staying a while longer where they sat as Arthur doubted his ability to stand, they watched as the light faded and the grassy field outside was scorched orange. They turned their backs on it to leave, making their way out through the trees and back to the streets, conversation turning to the next day which Arthur remembered with some shock was Christmas.

"What are you doing? You know you're welcome at ours," he offered to his companion whose family had migrated elsewhere in the continent.

"Thanks, but I'm going to Gil's place. He's been moping about Ludwig being away with Feli this year," she declined.

A smirk itched at his mouth and Arthur struggled to keep it from his voice. "Just the two of you? How romantic," he couldn't resist teasing.

"Really, you have to stop speculating, it's ridiculous," she tellingly overreacted, refusing to make eye contact.

In spite of his insistence that there was no need, she walked him to his front door in the waning light, admiring the decorations in the windows they passed. Through the drawn curtains in his own home, Arthur could see the downstairs lights glowing warm yellow and knew Francis had come home early, most likely already panicking about preparations for the next day. Pushing open the front door, he found he was right.

"I thought I asked you to keep him company, not kidnap him," Francis appeared in the hallway to address Eliza on hearing them enter, his frustration consisting mostly of building seasonal stress.

"He wasn't forced against his will, Francis," she rolled her eyes and giggled sweetly.

"Agree to disagree," Arthur mumbled, shooting her a mischievous look to which she narrowed her eyes back just as playfully.

The sight of his significant other in a good mood easing his tension, Francis exhaled and shook his head. "Will you stay a little while, since you are here?" he invited.

"I've got to get home," Eliza replied, moving to hug them goodbye before Francis stopped her.

"Wait one moment," he stepped back and went to the living room, quickly returning with a bag containing several wrapped packages, "Take these, for you and Gilbert."

She tsked as she took it. "Oh, Francis you shouldn't have," she lamented in appreciation.

"From us," he included his partner in the gesture, kissing her on both cheeks, "Merry Christmas."

"You too, both of you," she bid farewell to Arthur in the same manner and made promises to see them some time around new years before leaving their driveway.

Slipping off his shoes, thinking he should probably throw them out, and removing his jumper once inside the warmth, Arthur could smell that his other half had been hard at work.

"Sorry about that, I was pressganged," he felt somewhat guilty for not being around to help with the prep work, not that he would have been much use had he been home.

"That is alright, I have been managed to get everything done," Francis was unfazed, as evidenced by the pre-seasoned turkey that was set out on the table and the cake baking in the oven, filling the house with the rich aroma of fruit and spices. "Where did you go?"

"To the park," Arthur stood in the kitchen doorway where the older of the couple was checking on the oven, "She made me jog."

A stifled laugh came from the other's turned back, prompting Arthur to furrow a brow.

"What's so funny about that?" he asked.

"Nothing," Francis expelled another sound of amusement, "I just cannot imagine it."

"You're so supportive of me," Arthur drawled, arms folded as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Non, I think it is good that you tried," Francis retracted, "and if you liked it you should do it more."

"God no," the other immediately shot back as the older of them came over for a kiss.

Pecking his lover lightly on the lips, he smiled coyly as the other nuzzled into his neck and embraced him.

"What's all that for?" Arthur murmured, pulling back.

"I am happy you had a good day today," Francis drew away to look him in the eye, his tone bordering on relief.

Saddened as he recognised what he meant, Arthur placed a hand under his stubbled chin and coaxed it back to him until Francis made a sound into the kiss.

"You do not smell good, cherie," he spoke against his lips.

With a frown, the smaller man leant away and pulled the collar of his shirt up to smell it. Realising that he did, indeed, reek of sweat his nose wrinkled and he went to head up the stairs to cleanse himself.

"You should wear shorts more often," he heard purred from behind him as he ascended.

Ignoring his partner's leering eyes as he required his full effort to drag himself up the stairs with the help of the banisters, he peeled his clothing off and stepped into the shower. The water instantly helped to relax the muscles which had already begun to tense up again, damp hands massaging out the knots. After thoroughly scrubbing off the grime, he returned downstairs renewed to Francis who waited in the living room, poised to Skype Alfred.

Queenie joined in to oversee the conversation from the back of the sofa where she prowled behind them and their call was accepted almost instantly.

"Hey, wha-…ou gu-…" Alfred's voice crackled over the line, his image jumping about the screen.

"Alfred?" Francis fiddled with the screen, his forehead wrinkled as he tried to improve the connection.

"H-…on." The pixelated picture fuzzed as Alfred picked up his laptop and moved, his clarity improving greatly as he set it down in a new location. "Alright, how's that?"

His cheery face showed clearly as he settled back into a chair.

"Ah, much better, mon cher. Now we can see that beautiful face," Francis grinned as he drew a chuckle from the younger man.

"How are you even surviving without it," Alfred joked back, "Yeah, connection here is pretty bad, I think it's the snow."

"Oh, I am so jealous of you," Francis pouted, "I have always longed for snow at Christmas."

"I'm getting kind of sick of it to be honest," the other's lip curled in displeasure as he glanced to the side of himself, presumably out of a window, "It's so fucking cold and wet every time you go outside."

"It must look nice, though. All we've had is rain," Arthur put a positive spin on it.

"It is pretty to look at," Alfred reflected, "Like a Charles Dickins book or some shit."

Restraining from commenting on his brother's phrasing, Arthur was more interested in his wellbeing after having been out of the loop the previous few days, asking how he had been eating, sleeping, etcetera. Basically, ensuring that Paul and Linda had been taking adequate care of him.

"Yeah, I've just been trying to catch up on sleep really, haven't done much else," he regaled, his slouching posture indicating he was still working on it, "Oh, yeah, guess what I did with Paul yesterday."

He perked up, leaning forward as he waited for them to speculate.

"There had better not be guns involved," Arthur warned with a prematurely disapproving expression.

"What? No, he let me drive his truck," the younger sibling clarified exuberantly.

"I do hope you were careful," Francis shared his partner's concerns.

"Sure we were, we were on his property so there was no one else around. Still kind of a rush, though." As they were all aware by that point, Alfred was quite the adrenaline junkie. Always the first to take a dare and the only member of the family whose number of trips to A and E were in the double digits. "I think I'm going to learn how to drive when I get back."

"Just be careful, please," Arthur groaned, half disparaging at the idea of his brother being allowed on the roads. One more accident waiting to happen.

"I am, I swear. They don't have free health care out here, you think I can afford to not be?" his criticism prompted some laughter from the older two until something in the kitchen dinged and distracted Francis.

Jumping up with some urgency to go and attend to his culinary efforts, a pining sigh came from the man on the other side of the screen.

"Awh man, what are you making?" he shouted through to him.

"Just basting the turkey," Francis replied.

"I don't know why you're going to so much effort, Francis, it'll just go to waste," Arthur discouraged his other half, having seen the ludicrous amount of food he was preparing for the three of them.

An indignant scoffing came from the younger Kirkland, however, as he objected. "Um, I don't think so. You better be saving it for me."

Coming through with a spoon still in his hand, Francis placed one hand on his hip and smirked. "But I thought you said you were looking forward to all that American food," he harkened back to something he had said weeks ago chidingly, holding out the spoon covered in stuffing for Arthur to try.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to wind his brother up, Arthur leaned over to take a bite, the couple snickering together when Alfred regretted his words.

"I didn't mean it, you know I think your cooking is the best," he praised as his family added insult to injury, "You're the best chef, amazing, five stars, you should have your own cooking show."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Francis sang, unable to resist the compliments, even if they were half in jest, "I suppose I should keep some for you."

"Such a narcissist," Arthur shook his head at his other half's ego though had to admit he had the skills to back it up.

"I cannot help that they are not feeding him properly, he is a growing boy, is he not?" the older man justified.

They spoke quite a while longer and Arthur would have liked to continue but the connection got worse again and they were forced to leave it.

"You may wish to make yourself scarce, I told my parents I would call today," Francis cautioned him before he had gotten too comfortable pressed into the indent of his warm shoulder.

With a slightly displeased sound, he hauled himself from his seat and hid away in the kitchen for the duration of their interactions. Rapid and affectionate French spurted across the hallway and he eavesdropped involuntarily, their volume not allowing him much of a choice. He was grateful that Francis didn't bring him up in conversation, knowing it would only elicit disdain from the two older French residents, something that Francis had learned himself. Even their son's words weren't enough to get them to like his choice in partner.

Arthur wasn't entirely sure what it was that had turned them against him, they had just seemed to hate him from the very beginning. No one was good enough for their child, especially not some weedy, little, English boy. He'd have felt bad, for Francis' sake, had he not already done everything within his power to gain their approval. He had learned an entire bloody language just to impress them for God's sake, he thought bitterly, and they hadn't even thought to repay him the same basic respect he had shown them at every turn. Eventually he had gotten the message and given up, simply avoiding contact with them as that seemed the only option to keep everyone happy.

Apart from Francis, that was, and that was really the only reason it still bothered him. He was perfectly capable of dealing with people not liking him, he'd had to learn quickly at school, but he knew that it hurt Francis that the people he cared about couldn't get along. Although the elder of the couple was under no illusions that it was mostly his parents at fault, it was only natural for someone to want their family to approve of their life choices. However, they had been assured many times it was not the nature of their relationship that was the issue, leaving the blame solely on Arthur.

Anger rose in him at the thought of their judgement, indignant at being labelled inadequate. Odd seeing as he had branded himself as such long ago. But it was different when other people said it, people that had never put in the effort to get to know him and so had no right to think so. Frowning, Arthur almost had the mind to go over and share his views but refrained from doing so, instead relishing in the long-forgotten shred of self-worth he had managed to unearth.

In any case, Francis had chosen him over them. A hint of pride grazed his chest, a warming, positive feeling at the fact that a creature as perfect as the man he had the privilege of calling his partner had sworn his loyalty to him. He had taken Arthur over his own flesh and blood. Over the more comfortable, exceptional life that Arthur was sure any number of prospective suitors would be more than happy to give him. He truly loved that man, that sweet, beautiful person, and he only hoped that one day he might be able to show that through his actions as no words he could think of would suffice.

Caught in the throes of these impromptu, passionate musings by the man he romanticised over, Arthur found his cheeks heated by the sight of him. Blissfully ignorant of being admired, though, Francis drifted by, trailing a hand through his lover's short locks as he went, and saw to fussing over the next day's preamble some more. Affording said infatuated lover quite the appealing view as he bent to open the oven once again, he remained unknowing of the eyes upon him.

"It is not rising as I would like," he showed the first signs of distress over the sunken looking fruitcake, "Perhaps I should start again."

Disappointed, blue eyes looked nervously to the clock, calculating whether he still had time. One hand placed on his waist, the other rose to his soft lips, poking at them anxiously as they quirked in discontent.

"There's nothing wrong with it, just leave it alone," Arthur reassured him.

Standing upright, looking down through the window into the oven, Francis hummed unsurely.

"But the texture will not be right," his perfectionist streak irked him still, as it did every year.

"Why are you worrying, there's only going to be us three there to see it," the younger man pointed out, "and we're not exactly harsh critics."

Glancing between his partner and his confectionary antagonist, Francis shifted his weight between legs and sighed heavily, deciding to leave it be much to his own chagrin.

"I just want it to go well," he muttered, unsatisfied.

The heat in his ribcage returning as he observed his significant other's inner turmoil, Arthur found himself totally endeared by how deeply Francis cared about things, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. Rising from his seat at the kitchen table, he stepped closer to direct the other's face towards his own, looking him in the eye.

"Everything will be perfect," he guaranteed, certain he knew what perfect was as he pecked its lips tenderly, "Just perfect."

Though convinced for the time being by his other half's loving persuasion, it took Arthur another hour to force Francis out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Knowing they would likely be up at the crack of dawn the next day and fatigued from everything he had been through physically, he opted for an early night and was dead on hitting the pillow, only vaguely aware of the body beside him wrapping around him.

As expected, an alarm set by the more seasonally enthusiastic of the pair woke the both of them at a time more reasonable than Arthur had been anticipating but still earlier than he would have liked. For a moment, however, it seemed Francis was willing to delay acting on it as he rolled over to lay an arm across the smaller man's exposed shoulder. Glancing up to the half-opened eyes above him, Arthur mirrored the contented smile he saw in them and burrowed further into the embrace.

"Joyeux Noël, mon ange," vibrated from the chest he laid his head on.

"Merry Christmas," Arthur semi consciously replied, about to lapse back to sleep until he was shifted from his human pillow.

"Come along, amour, I want to get most of the work done before Matthieu gets here," Francis ushered, eager to get finished what he had already started.

In order to make the day as stress free as he could, Arthur had learned it was best to allow himself to be swept up in the other's flustered tide of activity and so started moving while Francis was already in the bathroom. A sharp twinge that ran from his feet to the tip of his spine put a swift stop to that, however, as his body made a late retaliation against what it had been made to endure. Bones turned to lead, he fought to lift them, and pain prodded him in various places.

Yet stiff and sore as he was, it wasn't the same feeling as the usual plagues he put up with. In a way it was justified, like his flesh was reminding him he had actually done something. Reminding him with horrible pain, yes, but he found that it lessened the more he moved and dissipated a little in the shower. He wasn't clamouring to thank Eliza as she had claimed he would any time soon, though.

After being tutted at for his drab choice in jumper by his more presentable counterpart, they went downstairs where he was immediately put to work.

"Really? All of this?" he raised a questioning brow at the sheer volume of vegetables he was given for peeling.

"It is not that much," Francis shrugged as he rolled up his sleeves, taming his hair back into a ponytail.

Sceptical but silent, Arthur did what he was instructed to do. It was only time of year he was allowed to play an active part in the kitchen and even then, it was under strict supervision. Relegated mostly to peeling, chopping and keeping Queenie away from the food, he made an effort to stay out of the more competent chef's path for fear of worsening his frenzied state.

The juxtaposition of jolly Christmas music against the image of him frantically dashing about the cluttered room was somewhat comical as he attempted to keep on top of every boiling pot and dish, talking to himself in his native tongue as he ticked things off his mental list. Gaze constantly flicking to the clock as though they were being timed, he would occasionally vocalise his frustration with a strained huff before racing to the next thing.

Through what appeared to be complete disarray, however, there was apparently an underlying plan to everything as, when one thing came out of the oven the next went in with perfect synchronisation. Around them, timers went off and the most amazing scents disbursed through the house and Arthur was sure he had only been given the odd job to do so that he felt useful.

Standing back to admire his work, Francis wiped his hands down his apron and allowed himself a moment of pride.

"There," he nodded, "I think that is everything."

Beside him, Arthur did likewise, looking happily over to the smiling face of the taller man to chuckled at the streak of icing sugar that dusted his left cheek.

"I think that's plenty," he assured, lifting a heavy hand to wipe away the sweet powder, letting it cup his jawline.

The giddiness of the season having gotten to both of them without them noticing, they met eyes and leaned in together. Kissing with a sweetness, both metaphorical and actual, that was intensified by the amplified connection that couples tend to feel around special times of the year, when everything is more meaningful as there is someone to share it with. The kind of inner fuzziness like the heart is wrapped in fur and the senses are heightened only to the good things around them, dulled to pain and sadness.

Arms winding their way around one another, their innocent embrace deepened, Arthur tilting his head back. Slowly reciprocating with a hint of pleasant surprise, Francis began to lean his body closer but stopped as they were signified of their lone guests' arrival by a knock on the door. Pulling away, their gazes rested gently upon each other a few seconds, faint smiles being exchanged along with one final kiss which Arthur jestingly swerved out of to lick his lover's sugar-coated cheek.

"Disgusting," Francis scoffed humorously, wiping away the dampness with his palm as they both laughed at their own adorably, saccharine idiocy.

* * *

Kind of a short chapter, I know and I apologise, but like I said before the structure of this section got kind of screwed up and I had to do something to fix it.

Anyway, I wanted to say thank you to the people that reviewed my last chapter as I got more feedback than usual which was really amazing. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as the last as it was a lot of fun to write. I always love writing parts for side characters and I think Eliza is one of my favourites.

Review, follow and favourite if you enjoyed.


	15. Chapter 15

Unperturbed by the onslaught of loving merriment he faced on entering, Matthew greeted his family with equal happiness, looking a little lonesome by himself.

"Merry Christmas, you guys," he smiled to his brother over the shoulder of the man who embraced him.

"Merry Christmas, Matt," Arthur reflected his expression as he watched the life be squeezed from him, tutting, "Francis, let the poor boy go."

Fussing over him some more, Francis relieved him of the bags he carried and took them through to the living room to leave them beneath the tree alongside the other brightly coloured packages that had built up over the preceding weeks. "We shall do gifts after we eat," he announced and glanced at his watch, "which should be in about one hour, is that alright?"

He looked to the youngest amongst them who simply gave an easy-going nod, offering a quiet, "Sure, you need my help with anything?"

"Non, merci cheri, it is all under control," the older man trilled, relishing in his role as host, "Are you hungry now?"

A soft chuckle fell from Matthew's lips as his surrogate brother persisted in clucking, and Arthur was pleased to observe the levity with which he smiled.

"No, thanks, I'll wait," he declined as he removed his coat.

"For God's sake, Francis, calm down. He hasn't even come in yet," Arthur quelled his partner's eagerness, rolling his eyes then directing them to his brother, "How have you been?"

"Good, thanks," the younger man replied brightly, his face matching his tone.

Nonetheless, Arthur scoured his features for any sign of a lie, making sure nothing was being held back. Since the last time they had seen one another, both older men had been in more constant contact with him, texting daily. It was only natural to worry, after all and in a way, Arthur welcomed the distraction from his other wayward sibling. He seemed to mean what he had said, however, his eyes bright, his smile without strain.

From the living room came a loud, complaintive meowing as Queenie emerged to demand why she wasn't the centre of attention, something Matthew was happy to rectify as he scooped her up. Her immediate liking of the gentle boy was evident as she curled in his arms, at ease with him. Reaching up one of her downy paws, she batted at the drawstrings on Matthew's hoodie, his nose crinkling as he laughed softly and carried her through to the kitchen where the group convened. Perching on a clear counter he shuffled back and let the cat settle on his lap, half of his attention dedicated to her as they chatted. Though the conversation flowed it was notably quieter than usual without Francis' scolding Alfred for stealing food whenever his back was turned, his scorn instead directed at Arthur who earned a slap on the backside for taking one of the cherries from the cake.

Over the sound of their voices, birdsong could be heard from outside, yet they really had nothing to sing about. The day was a moody shade of grey, the clouds occasionally throwing down a handful of rain that slapped the ground with a ferocity that almost shook the windowpanes. But, barely noticed by those inside, the dismal weather only served to intensify the warmth with which the room glowed.

The house had smelled heavenly before but only intensified as Francis continued his seemingly never-ending work, their kitchen surely the envy of the street. As more and more dishes piled on the table, Matthew was put to work taking down the serving plates from the shelves that the other two couldn't reach and Arthur made himself useful by plating things. Of course, everything was reorganised several times over to suit Francis' vision but at least Arthur could claim he had been helpful.

By the time the last item was ready, the table barely had room for the three of them to sit down yet they managed to squeeze themselves around the small surface, after Francis had immortalised his masterpiece with an abundance of photos. An admirable spread, one that Alfred would no doubt be jealous of when shown the pictures later that day. A mishmash of incohesive recipes ranging from traditional French dishes to ones Alice had used to bring out at that time of year, rather improved upon by Francis' culinary talent, he wasn't afraid to admit.

With the help of Francis' encouragement, or command rather, they polished off an impressive amount. Laughing amongst themselves, however, they agreed it was hardly a dent compared to what Alfred would have managed, picturing him scraping the dregs off of the last plate then asking when desert would be ready. The absent boy was truly a wonder when it came to his appetite, a black hole of a human. Perhaps his stay in America would finally fill the void that seemed to reside somewhere in him, Arthur considered, though if Francis' efforts hadn't been able to, he doubted anything could.

Said man's habit of feeding people was being fully indulged, impossible to tame as he ladled out spoonfuls of potato, insisting they hadn't had enough. It was something he had always done, only wanting to take care of people in the best way he knew how. When he had been first formally introduced to the rest of the Kirkland family, after more than a few weeks of dating incognito, he had turned up to dinner with a selection of delicate pastries he had made by hand, instantly winning Alfred over. Not that such persuasion was necessary for Alice as she had welcomed him with open arms, treating him like a fourth son from the very first moment as she did with every little lamb brought to her doorstep.

Contrary to what he would have his other half believe, Arthur quite vividly remembered the early stages of their relationship. The sensation of heart in mouth and fire in the cheeks at every touch, awkward fumblings and any excuse for fleeting contact. A hand on his thigh under the desk at school, chaste kisses behind the cover of a bus stop that dare not linger, the first time Francis had smuggled him home and up to his room where he was surprised to find out no one had been invited before. All very trite and tender and embarrassing to reflect on.

Almost a decade older they sat and enjoyed one another's company, much the same as they always had done with two notable absences. It was strange the way that time changed things, so slowly, so subtly that a person hardly noticed it altering the world around them. Little by little the years morphed things and eventually, in a moment of awareness, a person would come to realise that everything and everyone had been replaced with slightly more worn versions of themselves.

Across from him was a new Francis, his face harsher, only marginally so, and drawn out with the weight of the years they had been through together. To his side was a different Matthew, the spark of naivete that resided in his smile dissipating the longer it was observed, and Arthur came to realise it had vanished years ago. Practically strangers in that moment, his family remained unaware of his thoughts, continuing to change and evolve before his eyes. Yet he knew these two strangers and cherished them no less for the fact that they had aged.

Throughout the meal Queenie softly mewed under the table, brushing between their ankles and occasionally rising up on her back legs to investigate the table with her curious nose. The oldest amongst them reprimanded the other two when they catered to her pleading, dropping scraps to the floor for her to hungrily scoff, although it was hardly a waste considering how remained untouched. After an hour of Francis force feeding his family, they were still left with enough to have the same meal again the next day, which they most likely would as well as the day after, and they packed as much as they could into the fridge. The three of them working together to tidy the space which stood in a state of mild destruction managed to clear it with relative ease so that they moved on to the next event of the day.

Dragging out several immaculately wrapped gifts from under the tree, pine needles pinging about the room like tiny missiles, Francis delegated them out. A large cube too heavy to lift was pushed towards Matthew with a grunt of effort and an armlength, flat rectangle was handed with less strain to Arthur.

"You didn't need to bother wrapping it," Matthew told them appreciating the gesture nonetheless, as he already knew what was inside.

"But how sad and unfestive it would look under the tree with no sparkles on it," Francis anthropomorphised, eagerly awaiting it to be opened.

Letting out a breath in amusement, the younger man broke the suspense, ripping the paper to reveal several thick, hardbacked volumes.

"Sorry we have nothing to surprise you with," Arthur apologised, thinking their gift rather dull.

"No, it's exactly what I asked for, thank you," Matthew dispelled his brother's worries with his earnest gratitude and a smile to match.

"You are most welcome, ma cherie," Francis beamed before looking over to Arthur, anticipation for him to open his gift evident on his face.

However, he found his other half lent over the arm of the sofa, half buried in the tree as he rummaged. Emerging with an envelope in his hand, Arthur handed it to his partner and waited quietly, somewhat sheepishly, for him to open it.

Francis' was the only gift he ever agonized over as he was notoriously impossible to buy for. He always liked whatever he was given and never complained but there just never seemed to be a particular thing he actually wanted. When asked he would simply say it didn't matter, leaving his loved ones at a loss, which was why that year Arthur had taken a slight gamble. One he was reasonably sure would pay off.

Intrigued, the other's brows drew together as he split the top of the plain, white envelope and pulled out two tickets to the royal ballet, his expression turning to pleasant surprise.

"They're for the end of spring, I couldn't get anything sooner, I'm afraid. Hope that's alright," he unnecessarily fretted, "I thought we could stay in the city on that weekend. A hotel by the river or something."

The eyes of his other half melting over him at his gesture, Arthur offered a subtle upturn of his lips.

"That is such a wonderful idea," Francis commended, looking over the tickets once more then tucking them back in the envelope for safe keeping, "Merci, mon lapin."

He craned his neck upward from where he sat below Arthur on the floor for a kiss which the other was happy to return, drawn deeper into it than he expected when a hand held the back of his neck. Peeling their lips apart, a little embarrassed at such a display in front of his younger brother, Arthur cleared his throat and uttered, "Well, I'm glad I found something you like."

The older man sat back, glancing between his partner and the unopened gift in his lap.

"Will you not open mine next?" he urged, unable to contain excitement a second longer.

Thinking he should do as his other half asked before he started whining like an impatient puppy, Arthur stood the rectangle on one of its thin edges on his lap and ripped the paper from one of the ends. Conscious of the three sets of eyes watching him, as Queenie had taken a seat in the armchair behind Francis to look over the strange human proceedings, he worked quickly to uncover what was concealed and pulled away a strip of paper to reveal a fourth gaze. One that caught him thoroughly off guard.

A set of upside-down, pale grey blue eyes, bunched up at the corners, caused him to pause. A singular beat resounded through his body, from his chest it sent a wave out to the tips of his fingers, the souls of his feet, the top of his head. The feeling of being struck by an unexpected recognition. His breath trickled from his lips which had fallen slightly apart, and his eyes were wide as he stared into those of his mother.

Awareness slowly coming back to him as he sat silent and gaping for what felt like an hour, he freed the woman from her paper prison and flipped her the right side up. Resting the canvas in his lap to look in some disbelief at the scene, the shock of it managed to keep the welling in his throat at bay.

"Where did you get this?" his voice was hardly more than a whisper like he was afraid of alarming the captured image who looked at something to her left, unaware of the camera pointed at her.

"It was on one of my old cameras, I found it when we were going through all of our things before we moved," Francis beamed up at him, "You like it, oui?"

"It's beautiful," Arthur breathed, in awe.

Sliding his palm down the side of the canvas, his thumb brushed the flowers, pastel pink and lilac and yellow, that framed the image. The way they cropped the bottom of the frame gave the impression that the photographer had been hiding amongst them in order to get the shot, which may have been the case. Alice had always hated having her photo taken, turning her face away and covering herself with her hands whenever a camera was taken out, far more comfortable being the one behind it herself. It had been a difficult task to find a picture of her suitable to go alongside her coffin and Arthur had been forced to use one they had found in an old photo album from some twenty odd years ago, though she had hardly looked any different.

Her face had always seemed so ageless, perhaps because she had never had the chance to age, and radiated through the picture the spark and zest for life of someone with half her years. Frozen mid laugh, the thin fingers of one delicate hand half obscuring her lips, the other lay on the low, mossy wall on which she perched. To her back was another red brick wall, barely visible for the ivy that enveloped it in a deep green embrace so that the light sky blue of her dress shone against it. The sun beamed directly down onto her, illuminating her, though it felt rather that she was the source of light, projecting it out of her body with splendid, golden heat.

Studying the background closer, Arthur recognised where it was taken. The grounds of a stately home they had often visited when the twins had too much energy to expel in their own back garden and needed more space to roam. It had been one of her favourite places.

"Thank you," he struggled to expel words that accurately expressed how he felt and had to settle for the inadequately simple sentiment.

"You are most welcome," Francis practically glowed with how pleased he was to see his gift had gone over well.

Having told Alfred they would save the gifts that he and Matthew had gotten them for when they spoke to him later in the day so that he could watch, they held off on opening the remaining presents. Some second-rate TV movie that Francis liked was on and so they resulted to half watching it while they waited for the time difference between continents to align.

Most amusingly, Queenie was fascinated by the paper that littered the carpet, attacking it quite viciously. Not wanting her to be left out of the festivities, Matthew had brought her some more toys, though she neglected them in favour of the trash, not that he minded. Her pupils dilated so that her green eyes looked completely black, she pounced and pinned the shredded scraps to the floor before rolling over to rub herself on them, the texture of it against her fur apparently pleasing.

Entertaining themselves until Arthur received the text they had been waiting for as the sky was darkening outside, he pulled out the laptop to find his brother already calling. Accepting the call to be immediately bombarded with a crudely sung but enthusiastic rendition of 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' where the lyrics 'to you and your kin' were mistakenly recited as 'you and your king', the group laughed, heads shaking at the younger man's nonsense.

"Bravo," Francis applauded him, Alfred taking a joking bow from his seated position.

"It's kin, Alfred," Arthur corrected him amusedly as he had done many times before.

"It's who now?" Alfred frowned slightly, adjusting his monitor to get a better view.

"Kin, not king," the older sibling repeated.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Alfred dismissed, "So do I not get a Merry Christmas back then?"

"Joyeux Noël, mon petit. What have you been doing today?" Francis jumped in to wish him warmly.

"Well, it's still morning over here but things are already getting pretty busy," he remarked, glancing over his shoulder, "There's, like, twenty people here and I think more are coming later."

He seemed almost uncomfortable at the thought, something Arthur found odd as he had never once witnessed his brother waver in such a situation before.

"Anyone we know?" Matthew asked but the elder twin shook his head.

"Not that I can recognise but apparently they're all Linda's relatives, or something?" he shrugged, his expressive mouth downturned at the edges, clearly displeased by something but he moved on with the conversation before anyone could point this out, "You guys didn't open our presents yet, did you?"

Violet laced eyes rolling behind their frames, Matthew answered with quiet exasperation. "No, they haven't. I told you I would ask them to wait."

"You want to do that now?" Alfred raised an eyebrow to the older couple who looked at one another and nodded.

Inching closer to the monitor as Francis pulled out the bag Matthew had brought, Alfred directed which was for who.

"Alright, so the heavy one is for you, Francis, and the other one is Artie's, but be careful with it," he peered closely at his screen with voyeuristic glee.

Francis unwrapped his first, a set of multicoloured pans that he had pointed out to Matthew some months back.

"We must redecorate the kitchen with a rainbow to match," he half jested.

"One room at a time, dear," Arthur responded dryly, unwrapping his own cube with care.

Both younger siblings shifted to get a better view of the reveal, Alfred practically pressing his face against the camera lens, and waited for their brother's reaction.

Before the gift was fully opened Arthur could already tell what it was. Through a crack in the paper an unmistakable scent drifted, pungent yet delicate at the same time, sweet yet not cloying. He opened up the flaps of the cardboard box that was under paper to let more of the intoxicating aroma spill free, wafting directly upwards into the face. Taking a breath of it so that it filled his head, some memory, or the memory of a certain mood rather, was sparked in the back of his mind and a warm fuzziness sprouted there.

Arthur reached into the box and pulled out the dainty rose plant that was nestled inside. Barely more than a handful of off-white buds had started to bloom, sparse between the shapely leaves, though the eye was drawn to them. Petals like velour, surprisingly sturdy, were on the verge of unfurling but held back, waiting for spring perhaps.

"Do you like it?" Alfred burst, unable to hold back any longer, "You can keep it inside until the weather is good and then plant it in the garden, I did my research. Can't remember what it's called though."

Cupping one of the buds between his fingers as his mother had taught him to do, Arthur stroked the pristine flower.

"I love it, Al. Both of you, thank you," he glanced to both of his siblings who returned pleased expressions.

"Oh, so tiny," Francis cooed over the plant, taking the pot from his partner's hands to get a better look.

"Arthur, show him what Francis made you," Matthew prompted, having been equally as stunned and delighted by the gesture.

Happy to share his new possession, Arthur held up the canvas for his brother to study, eliciting a fervent reaction.

"Oh my God, I remember that place!" the younger man's features were overcome with beaming nostalgia.

He pulled his glasses away from his face a little to magnify the picture and squinted with bared teeth.

Though Francis was a pain in the ass to buy for, he himself was highly skilled in the art of gift giving and had to stop the pride he felt at his acclaimed accomplishment from showing on his face.

"Do you remember?" Alfred looked to Arthur, willing him to recall their shared memories and laughing to himself.

Lips curled upward; Arthur nodded as he did remember. Every detail.

"Man, we haven't been there in years," the other pondered, "Maybe we could go sometime."

"We should," Arthur hummed, nodding slowly as he focused on the image in his mind's eye more than what was around him in the present.

"And how's about Francy-boy?" Alfred turned his attention to Francis, an eyebrow raised and his tone jovial, "Still no ring under the tree, huh?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Francis glanced to his partner, batting his lashes forlornly. "Alas, non," he lamented, said partner sending back a look of his own.

"Better get on it, dude," the younger man goaded, smirking at the unimpressed expression on his brother's face, "before he loses interest."

"And why is that any of your concern?" Arthur snipped, knowing he should know better than to give Alfred the reaction he was looking for.

A shit eating grin broke out over the younger man's face at having gotten what he wanted. "Alright, I'm only messing with you," he placated, chuckling through his nose and looking to Francis again as he continued to gently tease, "I'm sure he'll do it when he's ready."

"I am to die a spinster," Francis wailed melodramatically to the amusement of all but one.

Though it was growing later in the day where Alfred was, there seemed to be no urgency to celebrate the way there was in the Bonnefoy-Kirkland household, something Alfred expressed mild irritation towards. He still held a rather childlike view of the holidays, probably because Arthur and Francis had tried so hard to preserve how things had been when Alice was alive even as the twins grew older, and it appeared his seasonal standards were not being upheld. His usual exuberance was in no way dampened, however, and he spoke with his usual bubbling animation behind his eyes until other people began to enter the living room in which he sat.

All three politely declined the opportunity to speak with Paul and Linda and the call ended thereafter with many seasonal sentiments and kisses being blown through the camera. As it always did after talking to the younger man, the room fell starkly quiet in his absence and with the laptop closed was near to pitch black. Seemingly offended by this, Francis stood with a tsk and illuminated the room with every fairy light and glowing ornament to be found so that the lounge sparkled with a soft phosphorescence.

Proceeding to force desert upon his family, Arthur had to physically pull him by the arm back into his seat, lest he start shoving the food down their throats himself, and was threatened with champagne in return. It appeared that with no human void to cater to, the older man was at somewhat a loss and by comparison Arthur realised, with an odd sense of acceptance and some guilt, that he didn't miss his brother. His not being there was something that he noticed rather than mourned, the fact that he was half way across the world with strangers was unfortunate but not a tragedy. Perhaps it was because the people around him outnumbered the one that was missing or perhaps it was because he knew that their time apart was not for much longer, but Arthur, for the first time since he had seen him disappear through the airport terminal, was at ease.

The sweet treats that had been so lovingly prepared were only picked at throughout the evening as the group settled into pleasant quiet, conversations being picked up and petering out casually. The fourth furry member of the family switched between the other three members, planting herself intermittently beside Arthur or Matthew as, although much improved upon, her relationship with Francis could still be tenuous. She had taken to the habit of stalking up and down the window sill, her reflective eyes studying the world she couldn't reach, her pink nose leaving tiny, triangle marks the length of the glass.

As a commercial break interrupted the third tacky film of the night, Francis breeched the subject of a new discussion to fill the time. Addressing the boy that sat on the floor before him as he weaved little plaits into his curly mop, Francis half-mindedly asked, "Do you plan on going back to the states at all, Mattieu?"

"Oh, uh, I'm not sure, some time, maybe," the other faltered without looking around, "Why?"

Continuing to thread his fingers through the younger man's hair, Francis shrugged. "I just wondered why you did not go with Alfred."

Matthew remained quiet a moment, tugging down the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and running the material over his bottom lip.

"Yeah, I don't know," he mumbled awkwardly, "I didn't really want to spend the holidays over there."

"Why is that?" Francis pressed, intrigued.

"Not that we would want you gone," Arthur quickly interjected, sending his partner a light frown as he appeared not to pick up on how uncomfortable the younger man had become.

A soft laugh emitted him, however, and Matthew turned his head to glance back at the other two.

"No, I know. I guess I just…" he paused, his mouth twisting as he came up with the right words, "When we were there last I kind of got the feeling that they got…bored of us after a while."

Becoming serious, Francis leant forward, as did Arthur. "What do you mean, cherie? They were unkind to you?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Matthew defended, shaking his head adamantly, "Only it was almost like we were there for…their amusement or something." His brows drew together as he processed his thoughts, unable to fully express the feeling it had left him with.

"I'm sorry, Matt," Arthur sympathised, holding back his irritation towards the two American's he had known were untrustworthy but feeling no gratification in being proved right.

"It's fine, it wasn't awful or anything, I just don't think I'm going to go back," the younger man proved his maturity in accepting the situation, his nature leading him to forgive and forget without resentment. "I wouldn't have gone out there for Christmas anyway, that's family time in my opinion."

His heart swelling at the sentiment, Arthur chewed at the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from stretching too wide, afraid it may come across as patronising. Francis had no worries of this though as he leaned forward to peck the top of Matthew's downy head.

"Toi gentil garçon," he doted.

As Matthew had planned on staying over there was no rush to end the day, but the fatigue of excess had left them drained. After making up the sofa into a bed which Queenie claimed as hers, the older couple left to their room for the night, relaxing between the covers with many a declaration of how nice the day had been and how appreciative they were of one another's presence.

Voices from the lower floor were amongst the sounds that first greeted Arthur on waking along with the clattering of kitchenware and the whistling of the wind outside. The room was tinged in grey but through the open door a yellow, artificial light filtered in which he emerged into after dressing. Descending the stairs to find the rest of his family, he turned into the kitchen where Francis was at the stove chattering happily with spatula in hand while Matthew leant against the back of a chair cradling Queenie.

It was the cat that noticed the third party's arrival first, fidgeting to be let down and trotting to her master's side, then Matthew who looked over with heavy eyelids, lips quirking upward.

"Morning," he drowsily acknowledged his brother.

"Ah, is that mon amour?" Francis more cheerily greeted, glancing back briefly then returned to the task at hand, "I thought I should try my new equipment. How many do you want?"

Arthur came further into the room to peer up and over his partner's shoulder at the pancake batter turning a crispy golden brown in the brand-new pan.

"I don't know, just make however many you want," he was not yet awake enough to work out the logistics of breakfast.

Having too much fun with his presents to stop, Francis poured in another perfectly circular dollop of the mix as Arthur filled the kettle.

"Did you sleep alright on the sofa?" he spoke to his brother as he prepared two coffees and one tea, simultaneously trying to quiet the cat that brushed around his feet.

Nodding, the younger man's forehead creased, prefacing the yawn which overtook him. "Uh-huh," he vocalized through his hands as he tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes behind his glasses.

A singular laugh blew from the elder sibling as he laid one of the mugs on the table beside him and placed the other next to his partner. Holding his own, he reclined back against the counter surface and took no notice as Queenie sprung up next to him.

"Arthur, please do not let her do that," Francis requested, disgruntled as his boundaries were purposefully tested by the creature, "She knows she is not meant to be up there."

"She's not doing any harm," Arthur argued on behalf of the animal, thinking nothing of it.

"It is unhygienic," Francis' tone raised an octave over the violation of his beloved kitchen.

With a light tut and a roll of his eyes, Arthur obeyed. "My God, alright," he removed the cat to the floor.

Their bickering resolved; the sound of a stifled snigger came from the quietest among them who had been watching with mild amusement. Both older men looking to him in question of what he found so funny, Matthew glanced between them with some humour.

"You don't need a ring, you're already an old married couple," he poked gentle fun of their interactions to which they looked at one another and laughed with him.

Despite having eaten more than he usually would in a week the previous day, Arthur found himself reaching for seconds at the breakfast table. The indulgence of the day prior having kick started something long dormant in him, he found that genuine hunger gnawed at the lining of his stomach, his body reacting accordingly until it was sated.

The other two of the group doing likewise, the morning was quiet around them and, in the tranquillity of it, the stress and dread which had come before the holiday seemed rather unnecessary. He felt he had more reason that year than most to feel such ways, but still, in the grand scheme of things, the fact remained it was only a day like any other. A let down in many ways or would have been had Arthur not stopped expecting so much of it a fair few years ago.

Though undoubtedly pleasant, on looking back he saw Christmas day had always been somewhat a disappointment to him. The culmination of the excitement that had been building since the end of November, thanks to advertisers pushing the holiday earlier and earlier every year, never concluded in the extravagant explosion that was promised. He blamed the media mostly. Hollywood had shown them snow and magic, peace on earth and universal happiness when, in reality, the whole season came to one over glorified day of the year.

He might have called the capitalisation of a religious festival perverse, but even he wasn't that cynical. There was nothing wrong with viewing it more as a time to celebrate loved ones, to connect with people that may be otherwise overlooked through the rest of the year and to exchange material tokens of appreciation. If he was honest, Arthur really didn't mind that the religious aspect was removed and he certainly didn't miss the midnight masses his mother had dragged them all to.

Yet, despite how he had loathed it at the time, each year he still felt the urge to go. Mostly out of respect of her wishes and regret for not upholding them when she was alive but for another reason too. He felt as though being there, in the church hall in which she had spent so much of her life as well as her last moments before being placed inside the earth, may imitate the feeling of being with her. A deluded hope, he knew as much, but every year it sprung to mind. One Winter he had even allowed it to guide him as far as the church gates where he was met with the sight of the vicar who had performed her funeral, causing him to break down where he stood.

Such dour musings were sure to help no one, however, and Arthur refused to let them outstay their welcome. Instead, he endeavoured to spend the rest of his time with his brother as present as he could be before Matthew left around midday. The couple left to their own devices, they decided that boxing day was best spent doing as little as possible. Old reruns of classic Christmas specials kept them occupied enough as they sat together beneath the bedding on the sofa they hadn't bothered to clear, savouring the time they had to waste. Idly passing the day with a warmth between them, it was soon ended and the prospect of returning to work was not one that pleased Arthur.

The office was notably less hectic than it was when he was last there, tediously so. Most people took their holiday after the season had passed as the workload between Christmas and New Year was postponable. Plus, the decision of who got a yearly bonus was decided largely on who stuck around for the Christmas rush, something about showing dedication and selflessness that Arthur really couldn't have cared less about. It wasn't as though he needed the extra money as he had done in previous years when he had worked both Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, early till late in hopes of earning the pitiful sum.

He could have scoffed at how pathetic it appeared to him now, scrounging for money the way he had done, making it his one motivation. Then again, it had been a necessity. There had been no one else to do it for them and, while he was not proud of his desperation, it had been a driving force. He didn't like to think what may have happened if he hadn't been able to use it, channel it into something productive. Contrast with the all consuming panic he could remember feeling every waking moment of his life but one short year ago, before he had relented to the will of the bank and let go of all he had been fighting for, he supposed the absolute boredom he felt in that moment was a privilege.

Sat at his empty desk, head rested lazily in his palm, he scrolled through emails from colleagues and higher ups with a distinct lack of interest. He felt slightly bad for having so little regard for the people he worked with as many of the messages he skimmed were seasonal greetings and well wishes and he realised he must seem quite antisocial having sent nothing of the like out himself. Perhaps he would have regretted not having formed relations with his co-workers had he not found most of them utterly tedious, a thought which, again, caused him mild guilt.

It wasn't their fault he disliked them, most of them anyway, since they were only trying to get by the same as he was. He really shouldn't have let his sour outlook prevent him from being good to people, but he found it difficult to be pleasant when he hated every second he was in that building. A toxic environment was sure to poison people, or perhaps it was his own toxicity and hatred of the place that did it to everyone else. It appeared to be a cycle, much as may things in his life appeared to be, which he would need to break if he wished for the situation to improve but he just didn't care enough to.

Arthur did not enjoy his job and had long since stopped thinking he ever might. There were times he had attempted to make the best of it, working hard, doing his best, excelling at points, but he hadn't been able to fool himself into thinking he happy there for long. Office work was simply not what he was suited to. Dealing with bland people in a stifling environment, he doubted that was anyone's aim in life least of all his. Although he may never have dreamed of fame and fortune, he had certainly hoped for something more, something fulfilling at the very minimum, which his current occupation was categorically not.

What he would rather have done, however, he really couldn't say. No matter how many times he had been asked by adults when he was younger or thought about it himself, he had never been able to come up with an answer to the question 'what do you want to be when you're older?' As all children did, he had wanted to do a number of fantasy jobs: pirate, king, wizard and so on. He had had short lived ambitions of becoming a musician in his teenage years but had soon grown out of that. The navy was his next choice for a fairly long time, the adventure and purpose of it appealed to him, but his plans had been shot down with an emphatic 'no' as soon as they were expressed to his mother.

The only other career he had ever seriously considered was writing. He had shown early promise for it in school, English had consistently been his best subject and he had studied literature all the way to the end of his education. With some sadness he was reminded of his plans to attend university to continue on that path, plans which had never begun to take actual shape as his mother had become ill shortly before he was able to apply. Not that he blamed her, or anyone in particular. Fate simply had other plans, as it so often seemed to. Therefore, due to his unfortunate luck and indecisiveness, he was stuck at a desk under the command of some mid-tier corporation willing the hours to pass.

He did little actual work as there was little to do and picked at the food he had brought from home absentmindedly, finishing the small container without thinking. Alfred began texting him around midday and they kept up a steady exchange of messages, both expressing their restlessness and desire to be home. At one point, Arthur caught his reflection in the monitor which had darkened from inactivity and found himself grinning, the thought of his brother returning home the next day sending a buzz of excitement through him. The poor boy had a full day's journey to endure and was already on his way to the nearest airport as they spoke.

Arthur didn't remember booking another appointment at the therapists' office after his last visit but had seen a reminder on his phone scheduling one that afternoon and so, trusting his former self, left his desk slightly early in order to make it there for the noted time. After having spent his day doing nothing that required brain power, he exited the building feeling no more tired than he had entered it, almost energetic as he strode down the pavement.

Unbothered by the dark and wet, he attempted to recall what had happened when he was last there but found the whole thing had been painted over in his head, only faint patches showing through. What exactly was said may have been lost but the feelings they produced, the reactions from them, were scored into his mind. The discomfort, the strain, the struggle of openness wouldn't leave him in a hurry but from it, as he thought of it over again with the advantage of distance, came a sense of liberation. Accomplishment even.

Though the usual nerves kicked in as he made his way up the short path and into the foyer of the building, the hint of self-assuredness that emerged from his musings guarded against the worst of it. He dared even say he felt confident.

As he came to sit on one of the chairs against the wall, his arm brushing the long leaves of a potted houseplant by the reception desk, his steps on the carpeted flooring sounded as though he walked over polished stone compared with the utter silence of the place. There never seemed to be any other patients in the building when Arthur was there, and he was beginning to think he was the only client. It wasn't a complaint, however, as he could only imagine how awkward it would be to sit in that waiting room surrounded by equally as antisocial and downtrodden individuals. He much preferred the solitude, as he did in most things.

Tino's door was halfway open already but Arthur still waited outside, afraid of intruding, and used the time to straighten his appearance slightly before the now familiar flaxen head poked around the doorframe. The friendly greeting it extended was returned likewise by its client and the two men took their places in the room.

"So, the holidays are over for another year," Tino began casually as he took his notepad from under his arm, sitting back in his seat, "How did you find it?"

"Quiet," Arthur replied in an equally relaxed manner, the tone of their exchange already notably calmer than their last meeting, "Only the three of us and we never really do much. Yourself?"

"Much the same. Just me and the dog and the husband, but I like to keep the traditions anyway," Tino smiled to himself, "I think I get a little overenthusiastic over the whole thing, but it only happens once a year."

Arthur's face fell naturally into a congenially amused look as he chuckled quietly. "I'm afraid I can't say I feel the same way about it."

Across from him, the other watched him closely as he saw, for the first time, a genuine smile from his client. He didn't draw attention to this, of course, and made a move to get into deeper discussion.

"You mentioned that your brother would be back soon after, you must be looking forward to seeing him," he broached the subject with less subtlety than he might have done had his patient been in a less evidently open mood.

As he had hoped, Arthur took the subject in stride, the positive anticipation of his sibling's return prompting him.

"I'll be relieved when he's back," he nodded.

Mimicking the action, the older man backtracked slightly, "And how have you found the time away from him?"

Casting his mind back over the past week and a half, eyes diverting to the floor as he chewed at his inner lip, Arthur searched for the most accurate expression.

"It's been…I've worried a lot and, I'm not sure, I suppose it wasn't as bad as it could have been," he failed to come up with a succinct way of speaking his thoughts.

"What exactly had you so concerned, would you say?" Tino gently pushed for him to unpack his loaded response.

Arthur paused as he processed feelings he had gone over time and again, able to do so with more clarity than before as the event which clouded his thinking was almost at an end. His brother would be back the very next day and, in retrospect, he had overreacted to an insane degree, yet he still felt himself justified in the thinking that had led him to such paranoid ends. While he was able to admit he had been reactionary, he couldn't have helped it.

"I think it was the distance," he admitted after a moment's consideration, "and knowing that I couldn't just…see him if I wanted to."

His voice trailed at the end of his sentence as his thoughts filled his head.

"I can see why that would be difficult," Tino acknowledged with sympathy, "Is it the first time you have been away from him for a significant amount of time?"

"Um, well he and Matthew went to the states for about a week last summer," the other recalled, "but I, I don't know, I really didn't mind so much then."

"When both of them were gone? Why do you think that is?" the smaller man wished to take advantage of the progress they were making, propelling them forward with immediate questions.

"I guess I just trust Matthew to keep them both out of trouble but when Alfred is by himself…he's not the most sensible person, is all."

Arthur's reply made him feel he was being cruel. For the amount of pressure he now realised he put on Matthew with his assumptions, for not being able to have a little faith in his own family, for implying he thought Alfred to be unintelligent. That wasn't what he thought but it was hard to express exactly what he meant without it seeming that way.

There was the sound of pen on paper, scribbling away, before Tino tapped the writing utensil against his chin and paused to ask, "You don't trust Alfred?"

As he had feared, Arthur had come across as though he thought poorly of his sibling. He had always taken great pains when they were younger, as any brother or parent would, to make sure neither felt more or less valued than the other, though he often doubted whether he had managed that.

"I trust him but," he was quick to protest but had to stop to reorder himself, "he can be immature. Sort of overly optimistic or too hopeful, in a way. It's that I worry about."

Nodding slowly, Tino observed his patient fully. "Optimism and hope," he repeated with purpose, "It is curious that you associate these traits with immaturity."

Instantly sensing the other's professional abilities at work, Arthur glanced back at him.

"Maybe not immaturity, exactly," Arthur retracted, a light sigh falling from his lips, "They're good things but…"

He cut himself off when he saw no way out of contradicting himself. Though far from dysfunctional, his relationship with his family spanned a vast range of complexities that he would usually avoid going into. He loved them and got angry with them and was protective of them but when such emotions required an explanation the only one he could come up with was the fact that they were family, a redundant and unproductive answer.

"Perhaps you think hope and optimism to be immature because you have not truly been able to feel them since you were considerably younger," Tino pointed out, "Could that be the case?"

The instantaneous sinking in his chest he had come to know quite well told Arthur that the truth had been uprooted once again. He knew he was a negative person but had always thought it normal, assuming people grew out of their ability to be as completely unperturbed in the face of adult life as Alfred continued to be.

Mouth opening and closing once before words made it out, Arthur exhaled in disheartened agreement, "It's just hard to be positive when things always seem to go wrong."

"Of course," the other's pale eyebrows drew together, his tone consolatory, "and it is not at all something you should feel bad for, especially when it likely stems from experiencing situations in which hope and optimism have let you down."

His tactful way of putting things still couldn't take away the sting of the memory they produced. The memory of such utter hopelessness as doctors repeatedly told him there was nothing they could do; it was something that Arthur would carry forever. He had been robbed of his ability to hope, to think on the bright side as he had been shown outright that the bright side could not light the darkness that was reality however hard he focused on it.

"I agree that excessive optimism can be just as damaging as excessive pessimism," the other picked up again, "but it is harmful to completely reject either one."

"I know," Arthur muttered, picking at a piece of peeling skin on one of his fingers that had been giving him grief all day.

Raising his head to glance sideways through the floor length window, he turned his eyes up to the starless sky as though waiting to see the plane that carried his brother home. He found nothing there but the clouds that moved steadily north, though.

"I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing, you know," he spoke as he continued to observe the night sky, patiently waiting for the boy they spoke of. "The fact that he can still be like that, that he's still himself after everything that's happened..." his words lost momentum and he drew his focus from the outside world, directing it back to his hands as his next thought tumbled from his lips through a sad laugh. "Things were just so different for me by the time I was his age."

Shifting in his seat to lean against the armrest, head cocked, Tino listened until he stopped of his own accord then suggested, "You must be pleased you could save him from that."

Lips curved upward with that lingering hint of melancholy; a sense of satisfaction warmed the younger of the two. "I am."

Casting his lavender eyes quickly over his notes, the professional leant forward in his seat to catch a hold of his client's wandering attention.

"So now that he is older, maybe it is time you started having a little more confidence in him."

It was odd to think that his brothers had surpassed the age at which he himself had regarded himself as an adult, yet they still seemed so young to him. Then again, had he met a younger version of himself he would most likely consider him to be just as juvenile. In a way, he found it almost comical how he had thought himself to be matured at eighteen and he was sure he would find it just as ridiculous to look back on himself at twenty-four in the future. When so much had happened in his life already and he had been thrust into the adult world so young, surrounded by people decades older than himself, it was no wonder he had acclimatised to see himself in the same way.

A defence mechanism of some sort, perhaps. After all, adults knew how to handle the situations he was faced with, therefore, if he was an adult, he must know too. Adults weren't scared shitless by the simplest things like he had been, they weren't terrified to wake up the next day knowing people relied on them, they didn't spend an hour crying in the bathroom every night because they were just so confused. They understood things like taxes and mortgages and debt, they knew how to handle that sort of vague, money related stuff and if he was an adult then he wouldn't have any problems with it. Or so he thought.

The older he got the more he realised that no one had a clue what was going on and the people who seemed like they did were fooling themselves. It was a frightening prospect to release Alfred, still so ignorant to so much of the world's corruption, to find his own way, but Arthur knew he couldn't expect him to be the child he wanted him to be forever.

"I can try," he relented, a tightness in his heart clenching then releasing over the course of his musings to be finally drained out altogether with his acceptance.

He found that to be the overarching sensation of their conversation as it progressed. Acceptance of what he was told, of the advice he was given and the thoughts that crossed his mind as his ability to fight had been significantly eroded after their last session and the week that followed it. The reinforcement around him continued to crumble under its own weight, the things it was meant to keep in had escaped and the things it was meant to keep out had been shown to be imaginary. Weak and unguarded against introspection, he willingly submitted himself to the flow of their exchange and left without the mental exhaustion he might have anticipated.

The way home seemed longer when he wasn't wandering through a half-conscious haze, colder too and his cheeks became numb from the wind and the pace at which he sped. Burrowing his face deeper into his coat collar, he swiftly passed down the main street and the promenade, the shop windows barely having time to reflect his form. He did spare a moment to see what state the old music store was in but found it not too different. Some scattered boxes littered the place as the owner had started to move in furniture, but the walls remained bare. Matthew had mentioned that his application had been rejected and though Arthur had encouraged him to try again he had said he would rather leave it.

Along his own street he noted several Christmas trees had already been dragged out to wilt beside the bins in people's front gardens. Their browning branches dripped with rain water as though they cried over the rejection, residual tinsel still caught between their needles. It was rather sad the way they were so quickly turned to trash after having been the centre of joy for such a short time and the thought of it caused Arthur to decide upon a fake tree the next year, though apparently, they were worse for the environment. A decision for another day, however, he put the thought from his mind as he let himself into his house, teeth chattering over the threshold.

About to call out to his other half, thinking him the only other occupant of the house, he was instantly alerted of another presence. The smell reached him even before the sound of the other voice, the scent of smoke festering in the air. It seeped into the hallway, all the more noticeable as it had been absent from the house the past months, to assault his senses and was matched by the coarse accent that emanated from the same source.

"Arthur?" his partner's lighter cadence addressed him, and Francis appeared in the kitchen archway, his brow drawn together in an apologetic manner, "We have company."

A full conversation was spoken through only two looks; Arthur's face creased with silent pleading to which Francis responded with a tightened smile of guilt.

Shoulders sagging resignedly, the smaller man made a lacklustre effort to compose himself and entered the kitchen, all levity of the day dissipating at the sight his guest.

"Ah, the man of the house has returned," Alistair greeted with a lopsided smile as he came through. Looking around himself, bushy eyebrows, even more unruly than his half relations', raised, he nodded approvingly. "I've got to admit, you're sitting rather pretty, aren't you?" he commended.

Even his compliments were barely enough to keep Arthur civil, but he managed to keep most of the irritation from his words when he replied with a straightforward, "Thank you. What are you doing here?"

A gruff snort of a laugh came from the other, having expected no less hostility. "The trial," he answered.

"Right, of course," Arthur exhaled, having been able to deduce that for himself and having meant what was he doing in his house, though he supposed he had Francis to blame for that situation.

Remaining where he lingered in the doorway watching the back and forth with awkward concern, said guilty part joined in the intrigue.

"What is the date of it?" he enquired, knowing only the basics of the situation which Arthur had relayed to him.

"Thirtieth," Alistair's response to him was equally as brusque.

Growing swiftly more frustrated with his ineffective communication as well as his very presence, Arthur catechized with some bite, "How long are you down here for?"

"Long as I need," Alistair shrugged with the air of a man that knew little of responsibility.

Tension steadily increasing, the prickly atmosphere between the two antagonists intensified. Looking to diffuse the conversation where he could, Francis stepped in to insert a more amiable topic.

"You have quite some time off then?"

"Aye," the older man diverted his gaze towards him, his eyes eerily similar to Arthur's, the same colour but a shade deeper, "they can spare me a while."

"You're still working at the docks?" Arthur put in for the sake of politeness.

Turning his head again to rest at an angle, the loose, flaming curls that fell from his scalp appeared like a tangled mass of burning weeds.

"Same occupation, different location," he regaled with a distinct lack of interest, "How about you? Still part of the rat race?"

His manner of speaking irked Arthur for a multitude of reasons, his abrasiveness, the way he drawled every word, the scathing contempt that seemed to underly his every sentence. Though, he admitted his last grievance may have been conjured from his own dislike.

"I still work at my office, yes," he kept his gaze levelled at the other who remained slumped back on his elbows against one of the counters.

"Fuck, if the money's good who am I to judge," he joked.

The room fell silent, three sets of eyes uneasily turning in three different directions as no one could think up the next line.

An audible inhale broke the suspense as Alistair pushed himself from where he reclined and stood to his full height. He'd the body of a manual labourer, broad as well as tall, an intimidating frame he'd no doubt been handed by their shared parentage. He stood in obvious contrast to Arthur who had inherited his mother's genes completely in that regard. Despite the more apparent differences between them, however, similarities began to shine through when they were observed side by side for any length of time, something Arthur was reluctantly aware of and hated with all his being.

"Alright, I'll be off," he mumbled, crossing the kitchen with heavy steps.

Francis followed him immediately, but Arthur delayed a moment taking a breath and letting it go again to loosen the stiffness that had gripped his body, then went to the hall with them. As they moved towards the front door, a bi-coloured face peered from the living room, having built up enough courage to investigate the unfamiliar presence in the house. Queenie seemed to immediately regret this decision, though, as she was spotted by the intruder.

"She's a sweet little thing," Alistair remarked as, on que, Queenie arched her back, teeth bared, and hissed at him. Giving another of his derisive snorts as she retreated, he continued to the door, glancing back at Arthur as he turned the handle. "Empty nest syndrome getting to you?" he gestured his head in the direction the cat had vanished with one brow quirked.

Biting the inside of his mouth to hold his silence, Arthur narrowed his gaze in return, arms folded as he leant against the wall several paces away. The other simply rolled his eyes at his obvious distaste and went to let himself out. His back turned to them, he paused in the open doorway a moment then turned to the pair, his expression altered subtly.

"How are the wee lads?" he asked after the younger two men, his tone genuinely curious.

"All grown up now," Francis sadly related to him, stood by the door.

"Aye, I suppose they would be," Alistair considered.

"But they are both well, both at university," Francis imparted with some second hand pride as to their achievements, "Alfred may be to receive a scholarship, in fact."

Features softening, the larger man nodded. "I reckoned they'd get somewhere," he muttered with a strange tinge of tenderness.

His relationship to the twins had always been markedly more pleasant than with their older brother. Both boys had been intrigued by their long-lost relation, fascinatedly listening to his stories, his accent a source of endless entertainment, and Arthur saw he seemed to have soft spot for them. As to whether he approved was another matter.

"Take care," was his curt parting and he said no more before facing the darkness and entering it.

"And to you," Francis remained at the threshold, hugging himself against the cold as he watched the other's bulky frame shrinking down the road.

For a while he observed, his forehead contorted with worry. Against the dim light of the street lamps, a spark flickered, and a trail of smoke was left in the receding body's wake as though it were powered by coal rather than nicotine and liquor.

A shifting sound from behind reminded him of his other half's imminent reproval and Francis closed the door and faced no less than he had anticipated.

"He just turned up at the door, what was I supposed to say?" he defended against the deadpanned stare of his lover.

"'Go away' would have done quite nicely," he retorted, peeling from the wall to find and comfort their skittish pet.

She tentatively crept from around the side of the sofa as he entered the living room, round eyes seeking reassurance from him.

"Perhaps I did not want him to go away," Francis countered, following him, "I do not find him at all as disagreeable as you do."

"How?" Arthur emphasised.

"I simply do not take issue with him. I had no reason to turn him away, so I invited him in," the other argued with some conviction, "and we were having a rather pleasant conversation, as well."

"Would you rather I go so you can both carry on?" Arthur offered rhetorically, eyebrows held aloft.

A sigh collapsed the other as he pressed the fingertips of his right hand into his temple, sensing the start of a conflict he had foreseen.

"Please, do not be annoyed with me, Arthur," he all but groaned, his apparent distress causing the smaller man to retract his attitude.

"I'm not annoyed with you," he assured in earnest. Though the day may have met with a slight hitch, he found his spirits still too high to stoop to the level of petty blame towards the man he loved. "Really, I'm not," he felt the need to reiterate.

Unfolding his arms, he tilted his head to latch onto the other's averted eyes and felt a twinge at the relief he saw in them. The smile which brightened them, though, was reassurance enough for Arthur to reflect one of his own.

A body brushing against his leg distracted from the moment and, both men happy to call the issue, that had never really existed, resolved, Arthur crouched to pay Queenie the attention she looked for.

"I still don't know what everyone sees in him, though," he confessed, ignorant as to how all but him could be so enamoured by such an intensely flawed man.

"It is not that, I…I feel sorry for him," Francis folded one arm and placed a hand on the back of his neck as he gave a slight shrug, lips pressed together, "He seems lonely."

Looking up from the floor, Arthur witnessed the thoughts that passed behind the other's eyes. His ability to empathise rivalled that of Matthew's and while an endearing quality it was something Arthur could only partially relate with in that instance.

"Maybe he is, but that's not for us to fix," he said pointedly.

"You do not even pity him?" the other implored, digging for the compassion he knew resided in his partner somewhere, reserved for friends and family alone, "He mentioned he is no longer with that girl he was with last time."

"Shocking," came Arthur's sardonic response.

With a roll of his eyes, Francis gave up the subject, commenting with mild disapproval, "You can be heartless at times, cheri," as he left the room.

Arthur wasn't much affected by the accusation, however, knowing it to be true. His natural stubbornness made him guarded and past experiences with the man he was so cold towards made him intolerant. The additional fact that Alistair had much the same bullheadedness as him only caused things to escalate and, in situations where there didn't need to be conflict one often arose. Worsened by the acceptance of others around them and the undeniable likeness they shared in more than one aspect, a deep-seated resentment had formed in Arthur on their first meeting and had never lessened since.

Sitting back on his ankles as he let out a breath, the thoughts were only that and Arthur told himself that it was doubtful he'd even see Alistair again before he left. He certainly wouldn't seek him out, at least. With a sound of effort being made, he stood to follow Francis to the other side of the hallway and was happy to find he was preparing something other than leftovers for dinner.

Offhandedly describing to him his latest therapy session as Francis replied with encouraging sentiments from behind, Arthur leant on the counter facing the window. He observed, however, the potted rose which sat on the windowsill rather than what passed by the darkened glass. It's creamy petals, curled at the end like parted lips, gave off a scent that managed to mask the rancid smoke that still permeated the house. As he stroked one of the velvety growths, he saw the soil in the ceramic container to be dry and so held it beneath the tap a few moments before feeding the cat then finally seeing to his own needs as he sat to the table with his other half.

Having planned out what was to happen the next day already, sleep did not come easy to Arthur whose eager suspense kept him wired through the night. Counting down the hours, multiplying how many minutes it was until he would see his brother emerging from the terminal the next day kept him occupied until the sun rose. As this wasn't due to be until five in the afternoon, though, Arthur was to spend his morning at the office until the trio left for the airport together.

Behind his desk, unable to sit still in his chair as the nerves jittered in his stomach, he sent three texts in response to every one of Alfred's, though their communication was still limited. The younger man had had trouble booking a direct flight and was forced to change planes in another state in addition to the late-night train journey he had already endured. Alfred's hyperactive nature meant he struggled with long journeys, Arthur could remember car rides with him as a child being a nightmare every time, and complaints of boredom were received hourly. Too impatient for the appointed time to be at hand to be bored, however, the elder sibling keenly reminded his brother of how many hours it was until he was due to arrive in the UK. Reassurance to both parties.

At half three exactly, unable to wait another moment more, Arthur sped from his office and was home faster than should have been humanly possible. His family already waiting for him, their cab was ordered, and they were on their way to the place that he had ten days earlier dreaded entering with much the opposite attitude.

* * *

Another chapter shorter than I would have liked but any plan I had went out the window long ago so oops.

One thing I want to say is that I really hope that Alistair doesn't come across as a bad guy because that wasn't my intention. This story isn't really meant to have any good or bad guys but obviously I can't objectively judge my own writing so I suppose I couldn't say whether I've managed that.

Hope people still enjoyed, follow, favourite and give me your opinion on things, it is all very much appreciated.

The end for this is in sight, I swear.


	16. Chapter 16

The airport was much the same picture of languid frenzy as it had been on their last visit, as though trapped in a perpetual loop where frantic faces sped in circles, never to reach their destination. Despite it being late afternoon, it held the atmosphere of the morning before sunrise, solidifying Arthur's theory that it was a place locked in time. Not that this bothered him, however, as the anticipation that lapped at his insides in waves kept him from thinking about anything else.

Making their way to the right terminal, Arthur lived in the moment that was to come rather than the present. He played over in his head how he expected it to be, predicted the rush of seeing his brother, tried to experience it in advance. Made rather useless by his inability to focus, and thanks to the lack of instructions from Alfred, it was no wonder that the group spent some time lost, almost not making it to the correct location just in time.

The announcement being made over the loudspeaker was drowned out by the blood that raced past his ears as his heart had become lodged in the back of his throat. Afraid that it might beat right out of his mouth if he tried to speak, he stood without a word, as did the other two. All three remained in a suspense filled silence, eyes locked expectantly on the doorway through which they waited for the fourth of their family to emerge. As the minutes dragged on, Francis grew antsy and began to worry the himself and the others about what could be keeping him. He was only listened to by the one of the group though, as Arthur remained fixated on the doorway, hearing nothing of his partner's complaints.

A slow trickle of bodies began to pour through the doorway, the moment each one saw their loved ones marked by a smile and an accelerated pace. Scanning the thickening crowd, the face that they waited for still did not emerge, his honey blond head absent from the bobbing mass which had started to dwindle.

Brow creasing, Arthur craned his neck for a better view, thinking he had perhaps missed his brother, but as the last stragglers came from the doorway it was clear that Alfred hadn't been among them. Glancing to the side to see similar expressions written across the other's features, he pinched the inside of his lip between his front teeth as the excitement amongst them turned to anxiety.

"What are you guys waiting for?" Alfred's voice lilted with amusement as it came from behind, startling all three of them.

Reflexively spinning as his heart leapt, Arthur was faced with the blinding grin of the man he had agonized over for the past weeks. Relief overwhelmed him, coursing through his veins to the tips of his fingers, warm and soft, immediately flushing out the stress that had built up over his time away.

"Oh, mon dieu, toi horrible garçon! Do not scare us like that!" Francis reacted with the expected melodramatics, placing a hand to his chest as he scolded before a smile quickly dissolved his fright and he reached to hug the taller man.

Bending down slightly to accept the gesture, Alfred chuckled as he squeezed back. "I told you I was at the west gate, what are you doing all the way over here?" he asked as they released one another.

"This is the west gate," Matthew informed him, gesturing to a sign that affirmed his point directly above their heads.

"Huh," the older twin looked up, placing his hands on his hips, "Must have meant east then."

Matthew shook his head as he was shown the same affection, unable to hold a frown as his hair was ruffled, playfully shoving his brother away in retaliation.

Turning from his younger sibling to his older one, Alfred smiled, raising an eyebrow as he held his hands to the sides.

"See? Made it back in one piece," he joked, not at all surprised by the intense sense of relief that exuded the other.

Eyes almost obnoxiously blue watching him with exuberance that Arthur had nearly forgotten the impact of, all the older man could do was exhale through his smile and reciprocate the tight embrace he was pulled into.

"Miss me?" Alfred could already tell his answer from the way the other's hands clutched the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes," Arthur replied with all sincerity.

He felt a gentle puff of air tickle the hairs on the back of his neck as Alfred expelled a breath. Holding onto him a few seconds more then parting, lips subtly upturned in an expression of deep contentment, Alfred held a similar look that told him he was genuinely glad to be home.

"Come, you must be exhausted," Francis prompted them to make for the exit.

They turned to follow him, Arthur helping Alfred with his bags which were considerably heavier than when he had left, filled with various oddities he had wasted his money on.

"Nah, I'm alright. Passed out the second we took off," Alfred refuted his concerns, like he hadn't noticed the dark shadows below his framed eyes.

Continuing to fuss over him nonetheless, Francis led the group out to wait for a taxi, exclaiming how quiet the house had been without him and how he was sure he must have grown a few inches in his absence. It was the two of them that made up much of the conversation with the less expressive pair interjecting occasionally.

As they sat in the car on the way home, the younger man's animation had them all hanging onto every word despite his scattered style of storytelling.

"And my roommate, this guy Davie," he cut himself off at every other word as he tried to stifle the laughter that bubbled inside at the memory of it, "I swear he's the funniest guy I ever met. Like, there was this one night we went out to the field when it was closed and this security guard came out of nowhere and Davie, he," he was unable to finish the thought for the amusement it brought him and he dissolved into hysterics that the other's couldn't help but join in with, though they never heard how the story ended.

"You think you'll keep in touch with these people?" Arthur posed through his rambling.

"For sure, man, they're all great," the other nodded adamantly, "I was talking to them the whole time I was at Paul and Linda's."

"How was it there?" Matthew joined in at the mention of them as Alfred hadn't brought them up until that point.

"Alright, I guess," Alfred shrugged, lips quirked with apathy, "Pretty boring when it was just me and I didn't know anybody there. But I did get to drive Paul's truck."

More exploits and fiascos were regaled over the course of the journey, causing heads to shake in humoured disapproval that was only half meant. For a trip of only ten days it was a wonder he had found time for so much and still made it back.

Barely pausing for breath the entirety of the way to the elder couple's home, Alfred changed the subject as they came through the front door.

"Where is she? I've been excited to meet my new niece," he referred to the family member they had gained while he was away.

"She's probably in the living room," Arthur directed him to go and make Queenie's acquaintance and watched the younger man go inside, worrying after him, "Be gentle, though, she's shy around strangers."

"Yeah, I'll be careful," the other waved a hand and approached the animal that perched up on the window ledge.

She backed away when she saw him, bending her body out of reach as he went straight in to pet her. It was rather like watching an overgrown puppy try to make friends with a cat as Alfred poked his face hopefully and obliviously into her personal space then watched, disappointed, as she sprung from her spot and darted to the kitchen.

"I told you," Arthur commented from the doorway as the cat ran past him.

"I was gentle, I just wanted to love her," Alfred pouted, looking sadly to where she had disappeared.

Smiling softly at the boisterous young man, the elder sibling followed his furry companion to where the rest of his family resided.

"Arthur," he was addressed by Francis' terse tone and directed by said man to look at the counter where Queenie had just leapt up, "She will not listen to me."

He followed his partner's unspoken order and removed her, holding her in his arms where she seemed happy to be.

"It's not really like you can train a cat, Francis. I think you'll just have to make your peace with it," he replied.

"I once read that cats are smart enough to understand commands but choose not to follow them," Matthew, who was sat sideways on one of the kitchen chairs, noted.

"You hear that?" Francis addressed his furry adversary, "I know you do it on purpose."

The tiny rebel only blinked back at him, smugly resting in the protection of her master's arms. Giving her an affectionate scratch behind the ear nonetheless, Francis glanced over his shoulder and addressed the group in general, though the question was aimed more at Alfred.

"Who is hungry?"

"Always," Alfred expressed as was expected.

"We saved you what you wanted, help yourself," Francis told him what he had been hoping to hear and hardly had time to move out of the way before Alfred was rummaging through the fridge.

"My God, Al, did they not feed you over there?" Arthur observed with some disapproval of his gluttonous behaviour.

Scraping various items out of dishes and onto his plate, Alfred emerged from the fridge, a string bean hanging from his mouth like a cigarette. "Sure they did, but I've been on a plane for the last eight hours," he justified.

"What was the food like over there?" Francis' superiority when it came to cuisine gave him a rather morbid interest in the American diet, as though he was watching some horrible accident on the side of the road.

Alfred jerked his head back to swallow down the vegetable that hung from his lips and gestured a shoulder. "Pretty good but not as good as yours obviously," he complimented with emphasis, "They did have this pie, though. No clue what was in it, but it was damn good."

"Mon tendre, if you want pie, I will make you pie," the older man doted, happy to have someone who would take his indulgence.

He had always been more lenient of the couple on their two young wards and had grown more so since they had moved out, as though trying to tempt them back. As much as Arthur scolded him for it, he understood completely. In truth, he was glad his partner felt that way, partly because it disguised just how attached he was to his brothers himself.

"Stop spoiling him," Arthur tutted, rolling his eyes, "You've already cooked enough for an army."

"But he has come back practically a skeleton," the other exaggerated.

"Pretty sure I've actually put on weight, so, uh, no more pie for me, thanks," Alfred admitted a little self-consciously, eating ravenously despite this.

"You complain about your figure when you look like that," Francis scoffed.

Exhaling softly in amusement, Alfred leant his firm frame beside his elder sibling against the counter as he ate. With the cat held captive, he moved to make a second attempt at friendship, far more tentatively this time. He held out a strip of meat for her as a sign of good will, waited for her to sniff at it thoroughly, then reached over her head to stroke her neck.

Momentarily disturbed by the foreign hand, she twisted to investigate but soon deemed it not a threat and allowed him to touch her as long as there was food on offer. When this one benefit was lost, however, she leapt to the floor and strolled from the room back to where she had been sat by the window, eyeing the cars that passed by.

His arms freed, Arthur turned and saw to the rose that had found a home above the sink where the light shone through nicely in the mornings and evenings. Turning the tap, he held it below the stream so that the soil was evenly dampened then replaced it. Though he hadn't had the chance to look up the specific care it required, it seemed to be doing nicely just being watered daily and occasionally moved so that it could make the most of the fleeting sun that December offered.

"I'm glad you like it," Alfred nodded towards the plant, "Reminded me of the ones mom used to grow."

"I think you mean the one's you used to kill," Matthew reminded him, his chin rested on the back of his chair.

"Not on purpose, I only wanted to help," the older twin defended, some genuine guilt registering on his face at the thought of all the innocent roses murdered by his well-meaning but misguided interference, "And I kept this one alive alright, didn't I?"

"It seems to be doing just fine," Arthur turned the plant to scour for any imperfections but found nothing worse than a few dried leaf tips.

It's creamy petals, still waiting to unfurl and show themselves in their fullest beauty, were blemishless and did indeed match, almost exactly, the roses that had been the centrepiece of their mother's garden. Her pride and joy, other than her sons, she had spent countless hours cultivating, weeding, arranging the space around her beloved rose bushes, treating them like the royalty they often represented. Never in his life had Arthur seen flowers more perfect than the ones she had produced, so full and fragrant as though she had poured her very essence into them, gifting them her own youth.

She had loved them as most people would only love things that breathed and moved. Arthur had never seen someone care for inanimate things as much as she had, nor had he since. He could still hear her voice talking to them as though conversing with an old friend as she made her way around with her watering can, collecting their fallen petals. For the longest time he hadn't understood why she had performed any of these strange rituals and had eventually asked her. Being no older than five or six at the time he had believed her when she had told him it wasn't the plants she spoke to but the fairies that lived inside.

Their homes were made of woven twigs and nestled deep within the bush, she had whispered to him as she pointed between the thick leaves, looking as though she truly believed her own tales. Instantly falling for her stories, he had staked out that bush every day that summer, sitting on the back porch with a set of binoculars from morning till evening in the hopes of catching a glimpse. Until she had told him it was no use, that is, as they only came out at night when the world was sleeping.

In the dusk of the warmest months they would throw balls where the tiny women wore gowns of flower petals and jewellery made of sparkling dew drops strung together on spider's silk. They would race dragonflies, row across the pond on the lily pads like they were gondolas and dance between the prickles with ease. If he lay completely still and very quiet in his bed at night, he may even be able to hear them playing their grass blade flutes, she had convinced him. But to his disappointment he'd never heard a thing.

He'd caught on eventually, though it did take him longer than he would have liked to admit. One winter day when the bushes were shedding their foliaged coats he had looked in through the wigwam of twigs and found no trace of other worldly beings inside. His immense disappointment stayed with him for some time, but his imagination hadn't been dampened by the revelation and he'd played along when his brothers had asked the same thing, baiting them into midnight search parties once their mother had gone to bed.

Lost in his musings, Arthur found he had been left behind in the conversation when his other half addressed him.

"Oui, cheri?"

Blinking back into awareness, he agreed out of habit and Francis continued whatever he had been saying. Arthur watched him, his thin, pink lips moving in a way that betrayed his emotions so clearly, similar to Alfred's manner. In fact, the two were close personality wise in many ways, both fun loving, personable and outgoing. Yet character was not the only area in which a likeness showed.

It was strange, Arthur considered, the fact that at a glance it would appear that Francis was the one related to the two younger men rather than himself. They shared the same, or in Matthew's case more comparable, eye colour; blue as opposed to Arthur's striking green, and all four of them were blonds so it wasn't difficult to mistake Francis for their relative. The same situation had been true in the case of their mother as her pale eyes, the shade of a blind man's clouded gaze, had the same surface level similarity.

Of course, when looking a little deeper these resemblances were shown to be exactly that, purely superficial. The slim nose, arched cupids bow, and rounded jaw had all been passed exclusively to her only biological son, not that he could see this himself. He was glad, though, that people made this error as they were as much her sons as he was their brother and if they couldn't share her blood, they should have something to show they were a family, even if it was just coincidental.

Arthur found himself locked in a state of reverie the remainder of that evening, listening to his brother's excitable voice and enjoying the sense of completeness that he had brought back with him. He remained mostly silent, the sort of comfortable silence of a person that has nothing to add but is happy just to be involved, and allowed Alfred to rattle on, a benign smile resting on his lips the whole time.

Before the younger pair looked to make their exit, there was still the matter of the final gift beneath the tree, sat waiting patiently for its intended recipient. As he had done to Matthew, Arthur fretted over his choice, but Alfred's beaming face was enough to dispel those worries as he uncovered the small stack of vintage comic books and, with their delayed Christmas complete, the boys didn't stay much longer.

As the elder couple waved them off at the door, looking on as they struggled down the street with the bulky bags they dragged, Arthur was satisfied in seeing them go. Knowing that Alfred was only ten minutes away, walking distance from his own home, he closed the door on the darkness and felt his whole being settle in a way it hadn't for the past ten days, as though a vase which teetered on the edge of a mantelpiece had been pushed back from the precipice. Whether it was to plummet the next time he left was still to be seen but for the current moment he eased into the security.

A quiet sigh slipped from his nose as he felt the lock click into place and the whole situation was sealed away. He had thought about it enough to drive himself to insanity and so, firmly telling himself the whole thing was over, he resisted the urge to overanalyse. His family complete and within reach, he slept sounder than he had in some time between the arms of his lover and the ball of fluff which had taken to spreading herself in the centre of the bed.

However pleasant the previous night's sleep was, though, the feeling of getting up for work never improved. Shivering across the landing to shower, he stayed under the stream long enough to make himself late but didn't force himself to hurry, any sense of urgency now meaningless after so many other days started the same way. Another shudder ran through him as he left the house onto the rain-soaked streets and stayed with him as he made his way into the office. The ever-present heat of the building seemed to be strangely absent that day, leaving the moisture that had collected on his clothes to evaporate slowly.

As grey a day as any, a stifling kind of blandness permeated the very air of the room. Pure boredom was at the forefront of his mind as Arthur worked and daydreamed and looked forward to being home again. The work trickled in at a steady stream and he sent it off just the same, but there seemed to be no shortage of it. A small pile of documents had appeared on his desk since yesterday and every time he reached over to make a start on them, he was prevented by another email with another request from another person he would have to speak to.

Speak to via the computer screen, of course, as in the four years he had spent at the company he had never actually come face to face with half of the people he was meant to work with. He would most likely end up taking the pile home with him, he realised with a sinking sensation. Francis wouldn't be happy but if he wanted to keep on top of things, he couldn't just brush stuff to the side, and he wanted to avoid coming in on the weekend.

His lunch break approached, and it came as a mild surprise to him that he was actually hungry. Hungry enough that he left his cubicle and ventured as far as the canteen to buy something, despite how subpar his options looked. For once, hunger outweighed indifference and he ate by the windows as thick drops of water pelted the glass. He remained there for a while after he was finished, half hoping that Erika may pop up next to him, half enjoying the solitude.

He had grown very fond of the meek girl's company of late; her youthful face was so refreshing when compared to the others in the office. Their brows so heavy with lines that the skin almost folded down over their vacant eyes, their pale lips pressed together so tightly it appeared like they were sewn in place, unmoving, unsmiling, they were all too dour to bare.

Not like he thought himself much better looking than them, however. In fact, he blended in with the general aesthetic as though he were part of the furniture. He had to wonder, though, whether he had ever been like her. If there had ever been a time he had inspired someone, jaded by apathy, or sparked hope with his youth, but he very much doubted it.

But she was nowhere to be seen, and Arthur was left to himself, watching the world below and above as his gaze wandered, prolonging the moment he would have to return to his office. The claustrophobia of the tiny box was made apparent when he stepped outside of it to clear his head and made him hate the space all the more. He felt like a lab rat, like the entire office block was put together as some kind of social experiment, testing to see how long it was before people snapped under the conditions. A study of modern man.

Glancing at his phone, he saw he had been away from his desk a good forty-five minutes and supposed it was time he returned. He wandered back, pushing open the door and remaining on the threshold looking in at the four walled representation of the corporate ideal. Plain grey walls, shelves lined with orderly files, a clear desk, an empty bin, a chair with an old grey coat hung on the back. He was appalled the room was his, could barely imagine any human residing inside of it. What soulless man could bare the crushing anonymity of such a place.

From the outside looking in, he refused to believe that he could and that he had. Then again, he supposed it wasn't him that had, not the real him. Whoever the real Arthur was had died even before his mother, on the day he found out he was to lose her, and since then he had been running as his own stand in. A blank slate to take his place until he had the ability and the opportunity to rebuild himself. He only realised as much when the moment was upon him.

Going inside only to retrieve his coat and bag, he wasted no time in closing the door behind himself and made his way to the lifts. He stepped in and waited patiently until he reached the floor he needed; one he had been to fairly recently. Past the seating area occupied by a number of cheap, blue chairs and the single person sat on one of them, his nervous expression quite the opposite of what showed on Arthur's face.

He strode by, legs carrying him with confidence, to one of the doors down the short hallway and knocked on the wood without hesitation. A brief silence then Ludwig called from inside.

"Come in?"

His frosty gaze rose from the paperwork he was focused on to meet Arthur's and showed him to be mildly taken aback.

"Oh, Arthur, what can I do for you?" he enquired.

"Just a question. Hope I'm not interrupting," Arthur began, lingering in the doorway.

"I'm not busy, what can I do for you? Please, have a seat," Ludwig offered him politely, but Arthur declined. He didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be.

"That's not necessary, thank you, I was just wondering if you were allowed to disclose who would be receiving a bonus this year?" he wasn't sure why his words were coming out so oddly formal, an unconscious habit he slipped into whenever he was made to speak business. It really didn't suit him.

Eyebrows furrowing slightly, the younger man laid down his pen. "Well, I cannot tell you who specifically, but the list has not altered much from last year," he divulged.

Arthur nodded, staying quiet a few seconds before saying with utmost composure and some degree of nonchalance, "You can give mine to Erika. I quit."

He caught only a glimpse of his superior's bewildered expression as he left the room, the door closing behind him, sealing his decision. Back through the corridor, he wasted no time in making his exit, speeding past the man that still sat waiting and taking the lift down. Out on the ground floor, across the polished marble floor, past the secretary lined front desk, through the automated front doors and it was behind him. His gloomy office, his festering department, that dreadful building; it was all behind him. He was done with it.

Exhilaration buzzed through him, setting his heart alight as he continued down the street. The further he got from the loathsome place, the more it felt he might grow so light he would float away on the breeze. Beaming his way to the bus stop, he took shelter under the cover, and smiled while he waited for the bus, watching the rain as it swirled freely through the air. Tiny beads of water so fine they made no ripples when they landed in the puddles that collected in the dips of the pavement nipped at his cheeks until a bus pulled up and he got on.

He sat upstairs close to the front so that he could keep watching it, how it fell from the sky as though shaken from a sieve above the clouds, how it was thrown up and swept aside by the wind as though it weighted less than the air itself. The window he pressed his face against steamed over with his hot breath and he swiped away the condensation with his sleeve, looking back at the pair of eyes that were reflected. So caught up in his spirited mood, it took him a while to realise they weren't his own.

He started with a jolt of realisation and the hazel gaze which had been observing him via his transparent counterpart did likewise, both glancing quickly away. Looking elsewhere a few moments before both turned their gazes back simultaneously, again they acknowledged one another with an awkward diversion, afraid to linger on the brief connection of eye contact.

Keeping his sight set on his lap, he could sense that his lone companion did the same, both petrified of social behaviour outside of the appropriate setting. In his elevated mood, however, social protocol was insignificant, and his lips turned upward as he wiped the moisture from the glass again to seek the reflected face.

The woman sat several rows behind him and across the isle, her face turned away to look out of her own window in which he could only partly distinguish her features. A delicately carved nose was all that stood out aside from her two gem-like eyes, the collected drops of water which grew heavy and trickled down the glass appearing as tears on her translucent cheeks.

The suggested sadness of the image, despite whether it was real or a projection of his own imagination, prompted Arthur's need to perpetuate the happiness he had found. His stop was approaching, and he stood to make his way down the stairs, pausing before he descended. The woman noticed, sensing she was the reason he hesitated, and took her gaze from the window to lay it upon him curiously.

"I just quit my job," he announced to her, smiling blankly.

"Oh," she breathed uncertainly, her dark brows pulling upwards, "Good for you?"

Arthur would never have described his own smile as infectious. Whenever he could sight of it, it would show itself to be warped, malicious and unmeant but apparently it didn't seem this way to her as she returned it, echoing his laugh back to him as he descended from view.

The sound of it rung through him like a bell and he carried it with him on his way down the street but as he walked the sweet tinkling grew sullen, turning to a knell. Impulsive decisions always seemed like good ideas when one was too high on adrenaline to think straight and were of course realised not to be such when it was too late. The joy of liberty turned hollow, freedom itself grew dense, stifling, became its own antithesis. That's what he got for not thinking before acting, he shouldn't allow himself to be so rash, nothing good ever came from it.

How selfish he was, he hadn't even thought to consult Francis, hadn't thought of anyone but himself. He had screwed over poor Ludwig; with no notice he was sure to be thrown off schedule, which would put the rest of his co-workers through hell and though he'd never cared for them he didn't wish them anything bad. And Erika, he dreaded to think what was coming her way. The lower floors always felt the stress of those above them tenfold and got the blame when things went wrong. With the butterfly affect he had just set in motion he dreaded to think how many lives he had ruined for the foreseeable future.

His victory turning to ashes, he reached the front door with no idea as to how he was going to break the news to Francis or of how he'd react to it and not a clue as to what he was planning to do next. Staring at the door handle, he ground his bottom lip between his teeth, willing something to come to his mind. Thoughts too scattered, however, and drenched in the frantic energy which had burst free like water from a hydrant, he was left sloshing aimlessly through the puddles it had left behind, wet and exposed.

Perhaps it wasn't too late, he tried to convince himself as he let himself in, perhaps he could claim it was all some elaborate joke. The more sensible part of his brain scoffed at him for thinking that Ludwig had it in him to see such a trick with even an ounce of humour. Maybe if he just asked him to ignore it, said he changed his mind and plead to be allowed back, surely he would have some compassion towards Arthur given they had known one another more than a decade. But Arthur couldn't manipulate someone like that, not without losing all self-respect.

"Is that you, mon lapin?" Francis' voice came from the kitchen where he was set up with his latest project, working from home.

Taking a breath and setting it free, Arthur went in to deliver the news, seeing no point in dragging out the suspense.

"You are home early," the older man remarked as he twisted in his seat, "I was just going to text you."

Coming further into the room with heavy steps and troubled eyes, Arthur pecked him on the lips then asked, "What about?"

"About the most exquisite gossip I have just learned," Francis could hardly contain his elation.

Arthur, against his better knowledge, took the distraction to procrastinate his own, much less riveting, revelation a few more minutes.

"What's happened?" his head quirked as he was drawn in by the utterly scandalized expression on the other's face.

"It is about our dear friends, Eliza and Gilbert," Francis bit his lip as he shuffled in his chair, far too excited about whatever he was going to say.

Sitting in the dining chair beside him, Arthur could make a pretty close guess as to what that might be.

"God, what have they done now?" he muttered with a tinge of exasperated amusement.

His other half looked him in the eye, his gaze illuminated with the same brightness in his voice as he began.

"Well, I called Gilbert first to ask if he would come here for New Years, but he would not pick up, so next I called Eliza and she said she would not be available," he paused for dramatic emphasis.

"And?" Arthur urged him as he knew Francis was waiting for him to do.

"I asked her why not," he continued, smirking, "And she said she is in the country with Gil for the next week!"

The last sentence came out in such a rush that Arthur barely had time to absorb the words.

"What, together?" he processed what he'd been told.

"Of course, together! The two of them! Alone in a hotel room somewhere in the countryside," Francis laid out as clearly as his partner's lips hitched up at the corners.

"They're a mess," he stifled a laugh at the pair's antics. They never disappointed.

"C'est ridicule," Francis laughed with him, shaking his head, "but she sounded happy. Passion is usually messy, non?"

Arthur hummed his agreement as he glanced away, still smiling as he thought about the turn of events. Surely Liz wouldn't be able to deny it any longer once they came back, if they came back.

"Perhaps we should go somewhere," Francis suggested, his gaze set softly on his lover who looked back at him, "It has been some time since we have been in that sort of mess."

"We could," Arthur seconded the proposal as no more than a consideration, feeling the pressure to bring the conversation back around to the issue he was meant to be addressing.

Francis paused, thinking whether he should take the opportunity as he tentatively put forward an idea.

"It has been some time since I was last with my parents, maybe we could go to them?" he raised one fair brow as he broached the controversial subject.

Cursing internally as he found himself now stuck between two things he really didn't want to talk about, Arthur paused.

"I don't know, Francis," he all but groaned, not wanting to upset him further with the no he was to reply with before telling him how badly he'd screwed up.

"You do not have to decide right now but could you think about it, please?" the trace of hopeful questioning in Francis' voice made the younger man feel too bad to look and he lowered his eyes to his hands. "I will not pressure you, cheri, but I would like it, that is all."

"No, it's not that," Arthur mumbled, picking at the edges of his bitten nails, "I have to tell you something."

Something was very evidently wrong, and Francis picked up on his tone immediately. Stiffening slightly, he leaned in, gaze levelled and brimming with mounting concern, waiting for an explanation.

Eyes still downcast, a sound of strain came from the back of the younger man's throat and, gnawing at the inside of his cheek, he looked over.

"I quit my job," he confessed with audible reluctance.

Both brows on the other's face shot up. "When? Today?" he said the first questions that came to his mind, reacting only with surprise.

The other nodded, his eyeline falling once more.

"Shit. I've fucked up, haven't I?" he cursed, running a hand over his face and through his hair as the absent glint in his stare showed him to be consumed by his own fears, "I'm going to call Ludwig, ask him if he can just forget about it and go in on Monday like normal."

"Non, you are not, Arthur. Why are you panicking?" Francis frowned, placing a hand on his partner's thigh.

"I can't just quit, Francis, I can't not have a job," Arthur told him, reflecting his expression, stress lacing his words.

"You will find something else," Francis' casual attitude was a complete contradiction.

"Are you not even angry with me?" Arthur noted the lack of any real reaction from his other half who hadn't batted an eye at the news and only shrugged at the question.

"Some warning would have been nice, but I cannot be the one to tell you to leave your job and then be angry when you do," he pointed out.

Reaching for his phone, intending to call Ludwig, Arthur regretted his hasty decision making more by the second, like he was stuck on a raft which he had untethered from the dock with no means of getting back to shore again. The longer he spent not fixing his mistake, the further out to sea he drifted.

"But you didn't mean it, did you," he snapped back harsher than he had meant it.

"Do not tell me what I meant, of course I meant it," Francis objected, "That place was killing you. I could hardly bare to watch."

As inclined to exaggeration as the older man was there was sincerity in his voice that couldn't be misheard and caused Arthur's hand to hesitate over the phone screen. Looking between the cracked surface and the face of the man beside him, he could feel himself veering.

"It is up to you, amour. I only want to see you happy."

Returning was a death sentence, he knew as much, with a fast track ticket to his own personal hell, but it was certain and familiar, unlike the purgatory he found himself in at that moment. If he went back, he'd never leave, he could feel it in his guts, but it wrestled with his fear of the unknown. He was not a risk taker and never had been, not when there had always been so much at stake. But there wasn't anymore.

He worried over all the people his choice was affecting, but they weren't people that couldn't handle it, it wasn't affecting anyone he cared for, he hadn't made it on anyone else's behalf. That split decision he had made, he had made for himself, as himself. His first call of order as the new version of himself, to leave his past iteration in its grave, to wander the corporate halls as a spectre. It felt good.

Rolling his lips together, his thought glazed eyes directed at the table surface, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"You're far too nice to me," he chastised gratefully.

A soft chuckle came from the side as Francis smiled. "I would not say that so fast," he warned, "I think I am going to speak to my parents about seeing them in the new year. Both of us seeing them."

Supposing the dreaded visit had been a long time coming and that he owed him that at least, Arthur made only a mildly discontented sound and put up no argument.

"I'll start looking for something tomorrow," he promised.

"What sort of thing?" Francis asked the question to which he had no answer.

"I…don't really know," he acknowledged his complete lack of a plan or forethought and, though it did worry him, he found it bothered him less than it probably should.

"There is no urgency," Francis dismissed nonchalantly, "You can take some time to think about it before you apply anywhere. I am sure I can handle being the breadwinner for a while."

Arthur cracked a smile at his joking tone, replying in turn as he began to become accustomed to the levity he could feel in his chest. "And should I have the house spotless with dinner on the table for you when you get home?" he played into the image teasingly.

"I fear there would not be a home to come back to," Francis commented, wincing as pictures of the house burnt to the ground flashed through his mind.

"Wanker," the other scoffed amusedly as he placed his elbow on the table to rest his cheek in his hand, looking up through his lashes.

In the dim light of the kitchen, the shadows were soft, darkness only hinted at by the lightest touch of grey. The murky hands of the encroaching twilight reached gently, caressing the forms they fell upon rather than striking them harshly and by their tender touch, the face of the smaller man appeared smoother, fuller. His hollowed cheeks had ceased to be steep canyons, his cheek bones no longer sharp cliff edges, the whole plain of his face having been rounded and levelled into demurely sloping meadows.

Seeing it by the hazy white of the suns dwindling rays, Francis reached across the table top, simpering gently, to stroke his lover's arm with his finger.

"You will just have to sit at home and be pretty for me," he murmured, watching the expression on the angled face change, gleaming eyes diverting bashfully as a sound of feigned disdain came from parted, upturned lips.

Arthur shook his head at the affection, rising from his chair to leave Francis to finish his work and felt said man's hand brushing his own as he left. He switched on the light in the living room and planted himself beside Queenie on the sofa, reclining and staring off through the window. It rained still but looked to be letting up, the sound of it too faint to permeate the double glazing so that the droplets fell silently and the only noise in the room was the low purring of his companion.

She rolled onto her side as he stroked her, making a funny chirruping noise and stretching. The downy fur of her underbelly was bright as summer clouds and just as soft, covering the body under it, but even so Arthur could tell she had put on weight since she had lived with them. It was strange to think that she, like all living things, had a past and experiences which he would never know. She had been with a woman before going to the shelter, as they had been told, but that was all they knew. The rest was a mystery.

Had the woman been kind to her? Judging by her ability to connect with those that were nice to her, Arthur guessed so. Had she been outside before, or had she been holed away her entire life? Did she know the feeling of grass and wet concrete against her paws? From the way she looked so longingly out at the world past the window, he thought she must do. Even her age was debatable. The vet had guessed at around seven or eight, but she was so small and apparently had been so much of a hassle to deal with that they hadn't been able to tell for certain.

Only she had the answers to such questions, and it wasn't as though she could communicate her answer even if she had wanted to. Her green eyes undoubtedly held a past, an interesting one, and as Arthur looked down into her bi-coloured face, all he could do was wonder. It was a useful distraction from the anxiety that stirred inside of him still. Contained for the time being but present all the same. The a la mode horror of unemployment could easily have taken over if he let it. He hadn't spent more than a week between jobs since he was twenty, though he supposed he was hardly between jobs as he had nothing to go into. That made things even worse.

Despite his best laid plans never really working out, he always clung to them for a false sense of security, as though clinging to the scaffolding of a house that had fallen apart, insisting that that was how it was supposed to be. To be without one was unnerving. Nothing to look to when things began to go awry, then again that had never helped him in the past.

To find one's way one sometimes had to stray from the path, he supposed, and he may even find a short cut. To where, though, was yet to be seen, but perhaps that was the fun of it. He had wanted to be an explorer once when he was younger, for about a week. In a way, this was the closest he could get. The whole world had been discovered several times over, but the future was unknown to all and he would be the first to discover what was in store for him.

Similar thoughts, both positive and negative, kept him up as he tried to switch his brain off that night. In the darkness of the morning, it took all his willpower not to spiral, so much so that he exhausted himself before sunrise and fell into an unconsciousness that bordered the threshold of death. So complete was the unfeeling trance, in fact, that on waking he almost forgot the previous day entirely and had to check with himself that his fresh memories were true.

Lying flat, frowning at the ceiling as he recalled the details of the event it all seemed like a dream. To think he wouldn't have to get up on Monday and go to that place, that he would never have to go there again, sent a thrill through him and a sporadic laugh came from his throat. Putting a hand to his mouth so as not to wake the man beside him, he tried to smother the sensation but couldn't keep the smile from stretching wider over his face.

Unable to remain in bed while filled with such energetic elation, he got up and went to feed Queenie who had chosen to sleep on the kitchen counter that night. He wiped the stray hairs from the surface, covering up her crime before Francis caught her, and watched her eat while he ate toast over the sink, not bothering with a plate. She purred the whole time and left herself some for later on then trotted off to take up her place on the sofa.

He joined her, glancing at the clock as he made his way over to see with some surprise that it wasn't even nine yet. Oddly, he wasn't tired at all, his body free of the lethargy he had come to accept and his mind ready for the day after the uncommonly profound sleep he had experienced. Taking his place on the furniture, he turned on the TV, keeping the volume down, and switched to the news.

Some fluff piece about a rescue dog finding a new home came on and, though he might usually have dismissed the empty story, there was something genuine about the presenter's happiness that stopped him from feeling this way. Who was he to question what brought a person joy, after all? Why should it not brighten their morning, especially considering how depressing the rest of the shows subject matter usually was.

Alice had been much the same, going through the paper and cutting out all the articles about animals and heroics and storing them away for a day when there was no good news to be told so she could read them. It was always funny to see the day befores broadsheet, pages of war and tragedy still intact then an empty space where a paragraph had been stolen, like someone was collecting every shred of happiness they could find.

Arthur wondered what she had done with all the scraps of paper she had accumulated over the years and whether they still existed somewhere. She could be quite the hoarder at times, so he doubted they would have been thrown away. Wherever they were, he hoped the pictures of piglets in hats and old people's birthday parties were bringing joy to someone.

It was during the same piece that Francis came downstairs, expressing his surprise at finding his significant other awake before himself. They sat together a while as the elder of the two laid out his plans for the day, various errands and things of personal interest he was to see to. Arthur's offers to help were turned down and looking at the foreboding sky that awaited him outside he had no problem with this.

Procrastinating his excursion a good while, far too comfortable, Francis eventually worked up the will to go, leaving with the promise of not being too long. Knowing this meant he would have several hours, at least, to himself, Arthur got up and perused his impressive bookshelf. He had more than one unfinished book that he could have completed but was in a very specific mood and required just as a specific read to accompany it.

Running his eyes over the spines crammed together tightly into the limited space, his fancy was drawn to the most beaten up, or as he liked to think of it the most loved, book on the shelf. A copy of Alice in Wonderland. It had belonged to his mother when she was a girl and, prompted by the fact he had been thinking about her the last day and a half, he reached for it straight away. The yellowed pages and creased cover art were nostalgic just to hold in his hands and the cloud of scent which puffed upward when he opened it knocked him back a few decades.

He knew it so well he barely needed to read the words to see the story in his head and got through the first few chapters quickly. The words soaked into his mind like butter through warm bread and he absorbed each line into his very core where they had already left their mark many years ago. Consumed by the world the pages told to him much like Alice herself, he was startled by his phone which vibrated against the fabric of the sofa.

Begrudgingly shifting his attention to the screen, he saw it was Alfred and opened up the message. He was asking if he was at home to which Arthur replied he was and a moment later another text came through. 'Can I come over?' it read. Again, Arthur responded affirmatively and got one last message telling him Alfred was on his way.

A mild sense of anticipation touched him, still feeling as though he hadn't seen his brother in weeks after his prolonged absence and wanting to make up for it. A subtle simper resting at the corners of his mouth, he went to turn off the screen and caught the date as he did so. The thirtieth of December. It took him a second to recall why it stuck out to him then remembered the visit he had received not a week ago, it was the day of the trial.

Pausing, he speculated in a detached manner over what was happening at that moment, whether the trial had even begun yet or whether a man's life had just been changed forever. He briefly considered whether his lack of investment was calloused but was merciful towards himself. There was really no reason he should care, after all, the man was a stranger, they had never even met. The fact they shared DNA didn't change that, he was no more than a random passer-by in the street was to him. He did wonder about Allistair, though, and how he was holding up but still in a rather indifferent frame of mind.

His curiosity was fleeting, however, and he went back to his reading material as he waited for Alfred to arrive. The younger man had his own set of keys but still knocked when he knew someone was home and soon Arthur was alerted of his arrival by a rapping on the front door. It poured with rain outside, so he hurried to let his sibling in for which he was grateful, scuttling over the threshold like a waterlogged insect.

"As soon as I got outside, it started raining," Alfred complained, taking off his steamed glasses and shaking his hair like a dog.

"It looks rather miserable out there," Arthur observed, his light tone mismatching his words.

"A real nice welcome home," the other responded sarcastically as he hung up his sodden jacket on the pegs by the door.

Arthur breathed a laugh from his nose and was about to ask his brother if he was hungry before the younger man took it upon himself to head for the kitchen.

"I'm going to make some coffee, want tea?" he offered.

"Sure, thank you," Arthur didn't mind that the boy treated the house as if it were his own, he was pleased he did.

Alfred set to making the drinks, taking down two mugs from the cupboard and dropping a teabag into one. Digging a spoon into the jar of coffee granules, he dumped the heaped helping into his cup followed by another and one more for good measure.

From where he stood, leant against the sink, Arthur elevated one quizzical brow.

"Why not just eat it with a spoon?" he suggested sardonically.

The other glanced back at him. "You've got no idea how tired I am, man," he groaned heavily, "It's the jetlag."

"Should that not have worn off by now?" Arthur pulled his brow down again to frown lightly, folding his arms.

The kettle clicked and the younger man poured out its boiled contents, his glasses fogging over again as he did so. "I keep falling asleep in the middle of the day and fucking up my sleeping pattern. I just have to stay awake until I go to bed so I can get a full night's sleep and I'll be fine," he finished his sentence by yawning into the crook of his elbow and Arthur had to pity him.

He did look drained, face pale so that the purple bags under his eyes appeared even more dramatic, his shoulders slumped, one hanging lower than the other. The whole of his image exuded exhaustion and he sounded a little worse for wear on top of that.

"So, how are you? How's work been?" Alfred changed the subject as he turned to hand Arthur his mug, sipping from his own.

"Awful, so I quit," the older man answered.

Chuckling at what he assumed was a joke, Alfred waited for his real answer, but received only a deadpanned look.

"What? No. You didn't really," he rejected sceptically, "Did you?"

Arthur raised a self-satisfied brow over his mug as he took a sip and watched the other break out into a grin before frowning suspiciously.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" he accused jokingly.

"It was shit. I hated it there and I had no real reason to stay, so I left," Arthur put plainly but honestly.

"Hey, more power to you," Alfred commended, nodding approvingly, "I honestly didn't think you would ever do it, I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," the older of the two uttered.

"So," Alfred predicated the question he was to ask, and Arthur could tell what it would be, "What are you going to do now?"

His lips twisted unsurely, as he still had no more of a reply than he had the day before. "That's what I have to work out next."

"Ah, don't even worry about it," Alfred assured him with a wave of his hand, "I never have a plan and I'm always fine."

Shaking his head at his sibling's perpetually happy-go-lucky demeanour, Arthur had his doubts. There were certain people that stuff just worked out for and others for who it never did, and, with his luck, he was most certainly the latter.

To stop himself from falling asleep, Alfred had brought some films that would keep him occupied and, if that failed, had Arthur to poke him awake. He slipped one into the DVD player, making fun of his brother for being so behind the times, and came to sit beside him. Disinterested in the images that flashed dramatically across the screen, Arthur went back to his book, his concentration broken occasionally by the over the top explosions that flared in his peripheries.

Slouching back into the cushions, it wasn't long before Alfred was struggling to keep his eyes open. His head lolled to the side every few minutes then jerked back up only to start inching to the side again seconds later. It was quite entertaining to watch but at the same time Arthur felt bad for him.

"Keep those eyes open," he ordered as he saw the cycle about to repeat.

Alfred moaned and sat forward, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. Sighing deeply, he twisted to adjust the pillows behind him so that they supported his right shoulder then sat back gently, flinching a little.

Catching the subtly pained look, Arthur drew attention to it.

"Is your shoulder still bothering you?" he inquired, gaze flitting between his brother and his book.

"A little," Alfred's lips were pressed together as he continually fidgeted, unable to find a comfortable position.

"I thought you said you would get it checked out," the older man tutted.

"I did," Alfred replied, reaching across his body with his left hand to hold his shoulder, "It's just a strain but it could be a couple of weeks before it's fully healed."

Sympathy in his eyes as he turned his head, Arthur couldn't stop himself from murmuring a soft, "I told you to be careful."

Alfred gave a grunt at the retrospective as his head tipped back over the top of the sofa. He remained still a few moments then reached behind himself to take one of the cushions he rested on and threw it down onto his brother's lap, flinging himself onto it.

Sniffing loudly, the younger man pulled his legs up onto the sofa, having to bend his knees so that he fit, and wiped his nose along his sleeve.

"I think I'm getting sick," he groused.

"Don't do that, Al," Arthur criticised the habit as he looked down at the head that now rested across his legs.

Despite his words, however, he felt his chest warmed by the action and laid a hand over his forehead, finding it mildly hot.

"You're fine," he told him, running his hand through the sunny blond locks that splayed over the pillow. His hair, unlike his twin's, had the texture of silk and was dead straight apart from the one little cluster at the front which curled skyward however forcefully it was flattened. Just one of the many differences that appeared between the two when observed for any length of time.

Arthur could remember a time they were practically indistinguishable from one another to the point that even he would get them mixed up occasionally. It didn't help that they would sometimes try to switch places or respond to the wrong name just to confuse people. This trick had stopped working, on the people that knew them at least, quite quickly as differences became evident in both appearance and personality. In many respects they could be considered polar opposites and there were times Arthur could hardly believe they were twins at all. Lost in thought, he almost missed that his sibling had drifted off.

"Hey, wake up," he jerked his leg so that the other was jostled awake, a sound of complaint coming from him as he was roused.

Readjusting himself where he lay, the younger man blinked, pressing his eyelids together tightly to try and wake himself up, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through various social medias in an attempt to distract himself from how horrifically tired he was, replying to messages from the people he had met stateside, unaware his activities were being watched.

Though he knew he shouldn't, Arthur peeked at his screen over the top of his book, intrigued more by the reactions of the younger man than what the messages said. His lips were curved in a restrained expression and his bespectacled eyes radiated a giddy delight which was unmissable.

"What are you smiling at?" Arthur asked.

"Huh? Oh, nothing," Alfred tried to act inconspicuous, his face straightening manually, "Just talking to some of the guys."

Peering at the screen, a smug expression came to the older man. "Amelia. That's a unique name for a man."

Caught, Alfred looked up at his brother, his narrowed eyes tapering further when he saw the look on the other's face.

"Okay, so I'm talking to a girl, that doesn't mean anything," he defended.

A justified glint sparked in the emerald eyes above him.

"Doesn't it?" Arthur goaded.

A huff came from the other's nose, eyes rolling. "See, this is why I didn't say anything, I knew you'd get the wrong idea," he accused quite peevishly.

Smothering a chuckle, the elder of the two relented. "Alright, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," his curiosity burned, however, and he sought to know more, "So, she's just a friend? How do you know her?"

Irritation too weak to last, Alfred simply shrugged. "Yeah, we got on. She works in the town where Paul and Linda live, in the diner."

Unsatisfied with the stilted answer he received, Arthur pressed on. "Yes?"

"Yes what?" the other repeated, "We hung out a couple of times, she's cool, we're friends."

Arthur studied his brother's face a while before deciding he had no reason to doubt him. If there was anything he held back it would have been revealed in his betraying eyes, in his telling mouth. Still, he took the opportunity to goad him.

"Interesting," he stretched the word annoyingly.

"Look, I know what you're thinking," Alfred speculated, "but I'm not looking for anything. I couldn't deal with a long-distance relationship even if I did like her like that, which I don't. I'm happy just being friends with her. So, stop being a weird old pervert."

Laughing, Arthur accepted his answer, pleased his sibling had finally stopped obsessing over women for the time being, and changed the subject.

"What was it like where they live? You haven't told me much about it."

"Some small town in the middle of nowhere," Alfred described, sounding none too impressed, "Farms and forests and all that wilderness stuff, you know."

"Sounds like a real metropolis," Arthur drawled.

"It was alright," the younger man understated, "Spent a lot of time looking around but there wasn't much to look at. Glad I found Amy, she made it more fun, but she told me she hates it there."

"That's unfortunate," Arthur had to admit he didn't find the image if small town America as aesthetic as some people did, "but I suppose you weren't there for the sights."

"Yeah," the other replied, his tone muted, as it had been when they'd spoken about it in the cab.

It struck Arthur as odd, Alfred was usually the first to over enthuse about something, yet he had only spoken at length about the school and his times there, not about the second portion of his visit. He could remember when he had returned from Paul and Linda's last time, exclaiming for days about every detail in a way that sparked a hint of jealousy in his brother. However, seeing him disappointed brought him no pleasure and he was reminded of what Matthew had said to them not long ago.

"What's the matter?" he raised the question, lowering his book to the side.

"Nothing," Alfred glanced up at him then away again, but it was enough to catch the perturbed look in his eye.

Arthur's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

It didn't take much persuasion to get Alfred to open up as he turned onto his back, looking directly up into his brother's face.

"I just," his lips writhed against one another, "I don't know why they invited me. Like, there were so many people there the whole time I barely spoke to them."

A slight tinge of frustration permeated his words, like a person whose plans had gone awry but was trying not to let that bother them.

"I wasn't expecting to be the centre of attention or anything, but I thought they'd be a little more interested in me."

Although more irritated than hurt, it was still a heart-breaking sentiment and Arthur felt anger flare in his ribcage. How anyone could undervalue Alfred, he had no idea. He for one had never met someone more positive, more the embodiment of sunshine or more generous with their happiness and he thought it an insult to take those attributes as anything less than the privelages they were.

"Well, they don't know what they missed out on," he complimented softly, meaning it and letting it show in his expression that it was meant, for once not feeling uncomfortable with raw sentimentality.

"Awh!" Alfred exaggerated back, grinning, "Well ain't you sweet."

Smacking him playfully on the forehead with the back of his book, Arthur smiled, taking his jibes with humour. Alfred raised his arms over his face to shield the second blow, laughing at having gotten a rise out of his brother then quietened down, crossing one leg over the armrest at the other end of the sofa.

"But I mean, whatever," he picked at a nail, having gotten over the whole thing already, "Not like we're close or anything. I don't even feel like I'm related to them, so I can't really be upset over it."

"It's not surprising, you hardly know them," Arthur empathised perfectly with the situation.

"Their loss is your gain, right?" Alfred jested.

A smile softened Arthur's lips as he nodded, knowing that Alfred couldn't tell how sincerely he agreed.

It was some time later that Francis returned with shopping bags almost splitting, half with groceries but also a good deal of things they didn't need, and the other two helped to put everything away.

"Alright, mon cher, I will spare you the pain of a conversation, but will you say hello, at least?" Francis asked of Arthur as he took his laptop into the kitchen and opened up a Skype call.

His expectant yet doubting look was something Arthur could hardly say no to and so, with a taut exhale, he submitted himself. Standing behind his other half as he sat at the kitchen table, he shuffled in place and waited for the two dreaded faces to appear.

They soon did, two sets of steely eyes locking onto the object of their contempt with unveiled disdain. Arthur would have been lying to himself if he'd have said he'd never felt such an aversion to the very sight of a human being himself, but he could barely imagine such hatred. Their distaste was so obvious, so burning that he almost felt guilty for simply insulting their sight.

"Salut maman, papa, comment allez-vous tous les deux?" Francis set off the conversation while Arthur stood awkwardly, hiding behind him, waiting for a moment to insert himself.

"Bonjour, mon amour," the woman who bore a striking resemblance to her son spoke with all the warmth of maternity then turned to Arthur with an icy, "Salut, Arthur."

"Bonjour, uh, how are you both?" Arthur fumbled his words, hands sweating as he gripped the back of his partner's chair.

"Bien, merci," the man, deigned to give him an answer, staring him down.

An uncomfortable silence took hold as Arthur ran out of things to say and doubted the older couple would respond anyhow, and therefore made his exit.

"I'll leave you to it, then," his voice was near inaudible as he slunk across the hall.

Blood rushing to his face, the back of his neck burned. He didn't know how he could bare a visit to them, yet he didn't think he'd be able to turn Francis down for the hundredth time. But surely, he would rather have a nice weekend with his parents alone than a horrendously awkward one with Arthur involved. The conversation flowed behind him and he wiped his hands down his jumper as he entered the living room.

"Brutal," Alfred remarked, teeth bared and wincing.

A resigned shrug was all that Arthur offered as he slumped down beside him.

The three voices across the hall spoke over one another, raising in volume as the exchange went on so that Arthur was unable to ignore them. He heard his name mentioned more than once and forcibly blocked out the words that came after, though his imagination filled in the blanks for him against his will.

Sat quietly beside his sibling, Alfred took note of his dejected demeanour. Standing abruptly, he announced, "I think I'm going to say hi," striding from the room with a look of conviction, leaving Arthur to confusedly watch him go.

Having been a part of Francis' life so intensely for so long, his parents knew both of the twins. Their relationship wasn't much more than acquaintances, though, and they didn't speak unless they were to impact Francis in some way and so when Alfred appeared from the corner of the screen, they both appeared understandably unsure as to what was happening.

Mischief in the curve of his lips, the younger man cleared his throat. "Bonjour," he purposefully mispronounced in his worst French accent, "Baguette, fromage, revolution?"

The conversation stopped dead, three questioning pairs of eyes stared at him, and from the doorway a fourth looked on bemused, eyebrows raised.

Alfred continued to provoke with glee, however.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask," he leant over the back of Francis' chair, "in France do you guys call a Nintendo Wii a Nintendo yes?"

A snort came from the archway where Arthur hid his mouth behind a hand, on the screen the two unimpressed French natives were baffled into silence and Francis's gaze flicked between his parents and the oddly behaving boy.

"Oh, wait, don't say anything, I've got another good one. How many French soldiers does it take to defend Paris?" he paused, lips flickering as he took immense pleasure in watching the couple's expressions darken, "No one knows, they've never tried."

"Al, what are you doing?" Arthur hissed through his snickering.

By the looks of the glares he was receiving from across the channel, Alfred thought he had probably pushed things far enough and considered his goal accomplished.

"Anyway, just wanted to say hi," he stepped away with a wave, "Au revoir, y'all."

Leaving the three of them to collect themselves after his display, Alfred walked casually back to the living room and sat down as though nothing had happened.

Arms folded and eyebrows held to the heavens, Arthur followed him, after a while saying, "Practicing for your stand-up show?"

"I'm here all week," the other smirked.

Letting out a breath as he shook his head, Arthur couldn't help but feel his brother played the part of the stereotypically ignorant American a little too well. He couldn't stop himself from laughing, however, and give a look of silent thanks to his sibling for taking his place in their lowest opinions.

The rain outside was dangerously soothing and Alfred fought to keep his eyes open as the room darkened, barely responding to Arthur's prods. After shaking him awake once more, Arthur thought he could trust his brother alone a few minutes while he went to the bathroom but was proven wrong when he returned to his unconscious form draped limply over the armrest.

He tutted sympathetically and went to rouse him as Queenie brushed past his leg. Biting his lip as he smiled, he picked up the animal and approached the sleeping body quietly, holding her over him. Gently setting her down on his lap, she sat in place, too light for Alfred to notice. More at ease with him now that he was incapacitated, Queenie craned her neck to sniff his face to no reaction. Deeming it safe to venture further, she stepped forward, climbing onto his chest and continued to snuffle around his nose.

This finally disturbing him, Arthur watched as his eyelids flickered open to be met with the feline gaze.

"Oh…kitty," he reacted drowsily, scratching her under the chin.

"Maybe you should get home," Arthur advised him to which he nodded.

Stretching, he shifted the creature from his chest and stood up. He poked his head into the kitchen to say goodbye to Francis and turned down his offers of food before pulling on his damp jacket and heading off through the dwindling drizzle. Arthur only hoped he didn't pass out on the street as he locked the front door.

Passing back into the kitchen where Francis had finished his call a little while ago and had moved onto prepping food, Arthur filled Queenies bowl with pebbly chunks of kibble.

"I am sorry about them," Francis apologised, sending a look of remorse over his shoulder.

Glancing up, Arthur brushed it off as he always did. "It's not your fault."

"Oui, but I have told them I do not appreciate it," the older man muttered, a certain bite to his words as he averted his eyes to the potato he peeled.

"There's no rule that says they have to like me," Arthur justified, unsure as to why he was defending them.

"What about how I feel?" the older man turned to him, eyebrows drawn together, lips pouting slightly, "It hurts me when they insult you. I do not know why they do it."

Offering a consolatory half smile, the smaller man stepped forward to kiss him chastely.

"You just can't persuade some people," was all he could say.

Lips twitching similarly, a puff of air came from the other's nose. "It means a lot to me that you still try," he thanked with his eyes as well as his words.

With hand on cheek, Arthur kissed him again. He tasted sweet, like natural sugar or the air after snow had freshly settled. It was a taste like no other he knew and more than made up for the bitterness he suffered for it.

* * *

Disclaimer, I have nothing against French people but I suppose if you watch this show these are hardly the most offensive jokes you've heard. Also disclaimer, these jokes are ones I heard from other people a long time ago.

So, yeah, pacing is still my enemy but that's what you get when you do absolutely no planning before writing what has turned out to be a novel. Can't believe people are still reading this after this much time, I don't even like to think about how long it's been to be honest, but as you can probably tell things are winding down. I won't say how much more there will be because I'll probably be wrong but it will end at some point.

Review, favourite and follow if you want to keep up with uploads, thanks for reading.


	17. Chapter 17

Warning - Adultish content towards the end

* * *

The sky wrapped in great swathes of pristine cotton; Arthur gazed out at the forms that shifted behind it. Billowing, rolling and twisting, he thought there must be some sort of creature tangled up, trying to rip itself free. Perhaps it would tear a hole and come hurtling to the earth or perhaps it would suffocate in the thick folds.

A break in the clouds showed a white sun, burning cold many thousands of miles away, it's light filtered and sterilized by the invisible atmosphere. It appeared as the scorching eye of that trapped beast, glaring though, his rampage stifled and his body flailing. It must be a bull, scraping its hoof across the sky, charging and becoming entangled in the conquistadores' white cape. It's raging bellows were carried on the wind, its horns flashed in the sunlight.

"It looks as though it is just the two of us tonight, amour," Francis entered the living room where Arthur sat and perched himself on the arm of the sofa.

"Hm?" Arthur drew his eyes from the window to look over, re-joining the physical world.

The elder of the two gestured the phone in his hand. "I spoke to Toni, he is with his family tonight," he explained, disappointment in his tone as his last-ditch effort at making plans for New Year's had failed.

"It's alright, we can see him when Liz and Gil get back," the other pointed out, not overly bothered since his brothers weren't able to make it either and he supposed it made more sense to wait for everyone. It wasn't a holiday that he found particularly important anyhow.

"Oui, but I would have liked to do something this year," Francis sighed, "We never do anything, and it is such an anticlimactic way to end things."

"Well, it's all arbitrary when you think about it," Arthur pondered, turning back to the window through which he could see the way the sun played along the underside of the clouds, "every day is the end of another year, after all."

"How very philosophical you are, mon cher, but that does not solve anything," Francis mumbled.

His eyes downcast, Francis picked at a loose thread on the decrepit old sofa. He had a habit of setting his heart on things too quickly just to be let down when they inevitably never came to fruition, regardless of how minute such things were.

"I suppose you'll just have to accept the fact that you're stuck with me tonight," Arthur exaggerated, adding a sidelong glance as he emphasised sarcastically, "How awful."

A laugh blew past the other's lips as he met his partner's eye. "I will make do," he smiled softly as he slid from the armrest and shuffled closer to Arthur.

Lifting his arm welcomingly, Arthur placed it along the top of the sofa and the man beside him gladly took the invitation, reclining against him.

"When is your appointment?" Francis changed the subject, tilting his face up to the one above him.

"Not until this afternoon," Arthur replied, his voice accompanied by the patter of rain on the window.

Conversation was left behind in favour of the rising sound and both looked out as droplets fell from the sky, glinting like scales in the silver sheen of midday. The image of the thrashing bull morphed into that of a giant fish, struggling to be free of the cloudy net it was caught in, its scales chipping off and showering down upon the earth.

"We must take the tree down," Francis interrupted his thoughts, "It is beginning to shed."

Arthur had meant to bring up the same thing at some point, having noticed the browning needles trailed around the house, and nodded. However, neither moved, both too happy in the other's relaxed presence to disrupt the peace.

It didn't feel as though another year had come to an end, there was a definitive sense of incompleteness to it. Then again, it wasn't as though life ran on a schedule, things didn't have to be completed on a time scale, there was no quota of how much life must be lived by the end of the year. Life just marched on along its one winding rout to where it would inevitably end.

A certain restlessness gnawed at Arthur as he reflected on such thoughts. The idea of time slipping away while he did nothing, regardless of how he enjoyed the nothingness he engaged in, put him on edge and after a while of trying to ignore it, he could take no more.

"May as well do it now," he suggested, disturbing Francis to stand.

A sound of complaint came from said man, but Arthur couldn't sit still any longer, he knew the damage that thoughts like that could do when allowed to run amuck.

Retrieving the boxes from under the stairs, ornaments were sorted into their compartments with more care than necessary. Tinsel and fairy lights were coiled into spools like rope only to become inexplicably tangled by the time they were next brought out, sparkling reindeer and angels wrapped in tissue paper and put away.

It took less time to take down than it had to put up as there was considerably less nit-picking from Francis, though he did insist on painstaking care being taken in everything. Several times he commented on how sad it was that it was over but having not looked forward to the holiday in the first place, Arthur couldn't agree. In truth, he was glad to have the clutter gone. It had started to become claustrophobic.

The living room appeared ten times larger once cleared, so much space to move, though it was drenched in glitter. That left only the tree to take care of, stood forlornly in the corner as though it knew its time was up, branches broken and drooping. Dragging it to the back door between them, they broke down the branches and left the limbless body at the end of the garden where Arthur intended to start a compost heap.

Strolling back inside through the rain, Francis scampered off ahead, apparently still not acclimatised to the near constant dampness of the island nation after living there longer than in his homeland of France. Arthur savoured it, however. It was his favourite kind of rain, the kind that falls down thick and hard in a direct line from the sky to the earth. There was something so certain in it, the way that rain ought to be. Drops struck his bare arms and soaked through his shirt on impact as though it weren't there, each one a cool, attentive kiss.

He stepped inside, the scent of wet grass and smog following him in, and he scooped up Queenie from the doorway before kicking the door closed behind him. Checking the clock, he saw the time of his appointment nearing and set about getting ready to leave. He pulled on a jumper over his t-shirt and pushed his hair out of his face then spent some time wondering what he could have done with his phone. Eventually remembering he had left it on the sofa, he went in to retrieve it and found an unknown number had called while he was busy. Thinking it was nothing, he slipped the device into his coat pocket, kissed Francis on the cheek and left.

He relished in the unseasonably warm weather, as although the dankness held an icy edge it was nothing compared to the hateful cold that February would soon unleash. Rivers formed in the gutters, a watery shade of brown as they carried away the street's filth. Staying well away from the side of the road to avoid passing cars, Arthur went slowly, scuffing his shoes along the pavement and looking around himself idly.

The whole of the promenade was closed as none of the shops ever opened on Sundays, a quaint if inconvenient remnant of how things used to be. Through the short expanse of ghost town, he made his way, peeking into each store front as he went. The old music store was near fully converted, walls painted a neutral shade of beige, the floor put in place and shelves set up but uninhabited. It was rather bleak in a sort of functional way, nothing especially wrong with it but lacking character.

It stood in contrast to the other stores which emanated a certain aura so that a person could tell exactly what sort of feel it had without going in. One knew that the fabric store would smell of dust and be bleached in flickering, ultra-white light, or that the haberdashery would be crawling with shadows and spiders, or that the scent of window cleaner and coffee would be engrained through the café. Such places built up that kind of personality with time and a person came to know them like friends.

Arthur wondered exactly where people went on days such as that one. Not even the houses looked to be occupied and he imagined people disappearing into the cracks of the floorboards when they heard his footsteps echoing outside, like woodlice into a log. Birdsong rung crisp through the heavy, saturated air, the birds staking their claim on the deserted streets, a fearsome war cry against the last standing survivor as he went on his way below them.

Finding the waiting room just as empty as he entered the building, Arthur sat and watched the sky darkening through the orange tinted window. The sunset was warped by the artificial colouring, giving it an apocalyptic hue as the houses over the road were draped in darkness. As he sat, reclined easily in his chair and watching the progressing shadow swallow the world, his phone rang in his pocket. The same unsaved number as last time, he let it ring out.

Curious as to who was trying to get in contact with him, however, as a second attempt showed the first hadn't simply been a wrong number, he scrolled through his call history. To his momentary confusion he saw the number was one that he had called himself, though he soon recalled it to be Alistair's. He continued to look at the screen, considering whether to call back though he knew he wouldn't.

Although he did wonder whether Alistair was still in the country. Given that he was calling, and it was unlikely he would call unless he needed something from him, Arthur assumed that he was. Curious as to what the older man wanted, he wasn't intrigued enough to actually make the effort and didn't have the time to as Tino appeared in the doorway, smiling and welcoming him through.

The neat office space had become almost homely to Arthur, like a well-worn jumper or favourite restaurant, and as he walked in a sense of calm dispersed through him. Subconsciously he knew he would leave having achieved something and this positive relation seemed to spill over onto the room itself. No longer did those four walls seem to begin closing in on him the moment he stepped inside, rather they stood solidly, containing and protecting.

Even the man who inhabited that room was changed in his eyes. Arthur felt slightly guilty when thinking of how he had acted towards him when they first met as surely his suspicion must have shown. He had treated the poor man like a criminal, as though he were a con artist, when he had proven himself to be nothing less than a kind, patient, respectable person. And Arthur did respect him, and like him too. He briefly wondered whether an invitation to their house may be in order but decided against it.

Rather they made their opening conversation, discussing their mutual lack of plans for the evening, as they sat and settled down.

"Has anything of note occurred since I saw you last?" Tino enquired, pen ready to take down anything important in the timeline of his patient.

"Well, yes, actually," Arthur had almost forgotten to mention the most lifechanging decision he had made within recent memory, "I left my job."

"You didn't mention you were thinking of quitting," the other glanced up, the tone of his voice mimicking surprise though the look in his eyes belied that he had expected such an outcome.

"I wasn't I just…had enough," Arthur admitted, shrugging, "I needed to get out before I was stuck there forever."

"Everyone has their limit," Tino mused in return, "I might usually advice against such rash actions, but in your case maybe letting go of some restraint is a good thing."

They spoke about it a little while, Tino asking the same questions as everyone else, until they moved on.

Though the window was open, the room was stuffy with contained heat and the smell of a storm was carried in on the breeze. It sliced through across his left cheek and failed to dispel the warmth.

Their conversation moved from point to point methodically and in a comfortable rhythm, like the two of them walked a path, side by side, which they had trodden many times before. Therefore, when Alfred was brought up, Arthur found himself already in the swing of their exchange.

"So, he's finally back with you," Tino alluded, "You must be relieved."

"It's nice not to spend so much time worrying," Arthur joked, lulled into a sense of ease.

Humouring him with a smile at the comment, Tino went on, "What have you been doing instead, then?"

Arthur stopped a moment, but his thoughts seemed to run off ahead of him, the easy vibe of the meeting leading his brain to mouth filter to shut off, allowing his subconscious to take the reins.

"I've been thinking about my mum a lot lately," the words slipped out offhandedly.

Interest instantly peaked, Tino had to restrain himself from seizing the opportunity too overtly. "Oh?" he vocalised his intrigue as subtly as he could, leaning forward.

"But I suppose that's not so strange," the other dispelled, running a fingertip over the suede fabric of the sofa and becoming half distracted by the texture.

"You mean to say you usually think about her quite a lot?" Tino caught the point before it could be thrown so flippantly away.

Glancing over, Arthur noted the attentive gaze he was under and realised his semi-conscious musing had drawn him into more serious territory than he had envisaged. That's what he got for wandering without paying attention to the path, he thought. But for as long as he was off track he may as well enjoy the scenery.

"I do," he admitted freely.

"You haven't mentioned her to me before," Tino pointed out.

Arthur was glad of his directness as it allowed him to correct the other's mistake.

"I think I have," he distinctly remembered her being brought up at least once before, if only incidentally.

"In a way," Tino nodded, "but not exactly. You see, you have spoken about her only when you reference the aftermath of her death. You've never spoken about her."

He emphasised the last word, quirking a brow to communicate his point, then paused.

Looking back mutely, Arthur's face reflected his thoughts as his mind went blank. Across from him, Tino watched, waiting for him to speak but he could think of nothing to continue the conversation.

The woman he thought of every day, loved with his whole being and missed equally as much, in that moment turned to ether and evaporated from his memory. Not a single thing solid remained, not of her living remembrance, only of her as an effigy, a fairy-tale. He could think of her as the picture in his living room or as the rose on his windowsill. He saw her in his brother's smiles but not in his head.

"Most of the people that I know knew her as well, so I never really need to talk about her like that," he thought aloud after an elongated silence.

"I'm afraid I never got the privilege," Tino's voice was gentle, his eyes thoughtful, "Could you describe her to me?"

Biting his lips, Arthur looked back then away out the window at the night that had settled beyond the glass.

"She was wonderful," he said.

Fabric rustled as Tino shifted. "Could you be at all more specific?" he encouraged.

Arthur could see him in the reflection of the window, his lilac eyes searching for a point of contact and he could tell that the professional had been dying to talk about this for a long time.

"I don't know," he directed his attention to his hands, cracking under the expectation as the multitude of apt words failed him, "She was my mum."

His shoulders shrugged and a melancholy he hadn't expected was evident in his words. An inherent kind of hollowness echoed throughout the phrase and the feeling only struck him after it had left his mouth.

"And to you that means…" Tino softly prompted.

Gaze flitting up to the pair of eyes which urged him on, a breath fell from the younger man. He knew what he was to say and knew that Tino knew, and more than that could tell the response he would get, but it was all that he could think.

"She was perfect," he resigned himself to the sentiment and the embarrassment of meaning it.

"Arthur, I think we both know that nobody is perfect," Tino countered, an edge of hard realism in the turn of his mouth.

Arthur agreed with him, of course, as he thought himself a fiercely unfanciful man, but in the moment, he felt fire inside of him. The instinct to defend the woman's exaggerated honour against the slightest hint of doubt burned through him, engulfing his rationality and flaring behind his eyes as he all but glared at the other. His inner knight, however, fizzled out quickly under the rational observation of his well-meaning enemy as he realised how deluded he must seem to deny the statement.

He had to admit that when it came to her, he didn't exactly think straight. He saw an idealised version of her and had done for as long as he could recall, since before she died even. A natural reaction to the threat of losing her. He chose to see only her good, to preserve it and the happiness it brought for as long as possible before it was gone forever. But the desperate need to maintain all that he loved about her had prevented him from remembering her as she truly was.

Every image of her in his head seemed obscured in some sacred shroud, softening her edges, hiding her imperfections, shielding him from the fact she had been a human with flaws. He saw her in the delicate life of the rose, the stony peace of a grave, the static perfection of a portrait but as she moved the paint crumbled, the petals wilted and there was nothing underneath. Selective snippets of her replayed and ended when the idyllic scene reached a certain point, like a director had yelled cut. His memories had been sanitised by grief, washed clean of anything unfavourable as he systematically deified the woman at their centre.

"No, I know that," he agreed after some time, his acceptance streaked with sadness, "But…she was close."

"Close to perfect?"

Arthur nodded, a sudden wave of solemnity sweeping him as his eyes dropped.

"She was just…so kind and generous," he muttered neither to Tino or himself, speaking to put his thoughts out into the universe in case by some chance she may hear them, "She loved everything."

"All very admirable qualities," Tino considered, "but very human ones. And humans are not perfect."

Glancing up when the other expected him to reply, Arthur found he barely had the energy to open his mouth, the rising crest of gloom having fallen directly on him and flattened him.

"Do you agree?"

He stared through the other, pinned helplessly down beneath the force over him. Every word directed at him was another gallon of it poured over his submerged body as he struggled to focus through the disorienting surface.

"Would you like to stop for now, Arthur?"

The sensation of his phone vibrating against his thigh drew his attention momentarily and he broke his unseeing stare to see who it was, a prickling running up the back of his neck when he did so. Alistair again.

"Do you need to answer that?"

Why always at the worst moments? Always there to mock when he was at his lowest, to bring him down when he was up, only ever taking, his energy his time, and leaving everything worse for having been there. Yet again that shambles of a man was trying to find a spot where he could chip through the nice little fortress Arthur had built around his life. While his walls were thick, Alistair was persistent and he timed his attacks cleverly, seeming always to strike when Arthur was at his weakest or finding an ally that would sneak him in behind Arthur's back.

That was how he had worked his way through in the first place, his underhanded tricks of going to Alice and taking full liberty of the fact she had no protection whatsoever. Though Arthur couldn't help but blame himself partially for that, having been unable to stand guard for her as he knew he should have. However he had tried to extend his battlements to shield her, she wantonly tore them down, thinking her belief in the goodness of the world would be enough. Little did she realise that it only exposed her own martyring nature to anyone who would exploit it.

"She was too kind."

He hit the decline call button and slid his phone back into his pocket. Thick heat crawled over his skin and he longed to peel it off in one clean layer. He sizzled beneath the ocean that oppressed him, steam rising as he began to evaporate it.

"All she ever did was help people, that's all she ever did, and she never realised they were taking advantage of her," his voice took on a shaking edge as his brows drew closely together, "or maybe she did but she just didn't mind. I don't know which is better."

Unsure as to what had produced this erratic statement, Tino went with it, leaning in on his knees. "And this frustrated you," he observed.

"She acted as though saying no to someone made her a bad person," Arthur heard him but continued on his tangent, "it's like she thought she had to fix the whole world."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" the older man tried to steer his patient's venting in a more constructive direction while the opportunity presented itself, taking furious notes on his pad.

Wrapped up in the flurry of thoughts that whirled about his head, Arthur paid little attention to the man opposite him, his question seeming to come from some unembodied force to provoke the image of red hair and eyes like his own reflected to him.

"Any person, whether she knew them or not, she would just throw herself at their problems like she didn't care what happened to her," he shook his head slowly from side to side as he spoke.

"Why do you think she would have done that?"

"It made her happy, I suppose," Arthur ran a hand through his hair, gripping a fistful at the back of his head and sighing, "She said it did, anyway."

The lack of conviction in his words was evident and Tino pounced upon them. "You don't believe her reasoning?"

"Not really," he confessed, gaze wandering over the impressive array of textbooks which lined the shelves.

"Why?"

Running his eyes over the shelves at the various books, certificates and personal affects, he landed on a picture frame. Arthur looked not at the happy couple in the photo but rather his own face in the reflection of the glass as the right phrase sprung to mind.

"She was always so desperate."

"How, exactly?" Tino paused his scribbling to look up in a rare instance of genuinely not understanding what his patient meant.

Drawing his focus from himself to rest it on the curious face which so intently probed him, Arthur elaborated slowly.

"Desperate to be needed."

As he spoke another of those stored reels began playing in his mind, flickering to life with a click as her face came into frame, smiling, another face projecting over top of the first, then a third layer and a fourth.

"Desperate to be a good person."

Each radiant face blurred the one under it, the expression subtly shifted each time. Each smile grew fainter, each set of eyes became duller, each forehead formed deeper wrinkles. The years passed over her in Arthur's head in seconds, picking at her resolve and taking what they could just as everyone did, just as she allowed them to.

"It's like she thought she was only worth something when someone else valued her."

Whether it be the community, the lord or her own family, that was all she had ever seemed to do; live for others. Like the simple driving force of self-preservation wasn't enough to her, or like she had ascended above such selfish motivations and existed purely for the sake of servitude.

"That doesn't sound like a healthy way to live," Tino interjected.

"It wasn't," Arthur let out a laugh, his brows furrowed as he looked to his companion as though willing him to see the tragic humour too, "I mean, it killed her in the end, didn't it."

The other cocked his head.

Expression intensifying, Arthur stared back, finishing his thought.

"I mean, if she'd have taken better care of herself, she would probably still be here," his retrospective sounded bitter though he had not intended it to and he averted his gaze to his hands once more, missing the sympathy offered to him. "That's what most of the doctors said, anyway. That if they'd have found it sooner, they could have done something."

He cleared his throat, feeling the look he was being given against the side of his face and neglecting to connect with it, instead casting his attention inward to the thoughts he had never allowed himself to contemplate.

"But she ignored it until it was too late," her aged face was as vivid as any polished memory he could recall, more so even, as it hovered in his mind's eye, crestfallen and dejected, "and it's not like I could have done anything. I always tried to look after her where I could obviously, but there was nothing I could have done."

Hands gesturing vaguely, Arthur spared a glance over to the other occupant of the room to read his face, fearing he would be looked at like some rambling lunatic, or worse with disgust.

No such expression appeared on the other's understanding features, of course, and the smaller man replied with reassurance, "It wouldn't be reasonable to expect that of you."

Her image floated there still, in the back of his thoughts, without replaying over or fading, a brand-new addition to his catalogue of her. The first new addition since she had left him. It stood solid, and for a while Arthur questioned whether it was actually her he was picturing, so used to the imagined vignette that this fresh portrayal struck him almost as ugly. Her lips turned downward, her eyes held no lustre and her body was worn, though this was what made her real. She was used and lived in. That brainwashed version of her had never existed, like decorative china it glistened in a case without a mark on it.

"But I don't blame her," Arthur defended himself against the guilt that welled in the pit of his stomach by justifying his thoughts out loud.

"Not blaming yourself doesn't mean that you blame someone else," Tino's voice held a subtle hint of levity as he raised an encouraging brow, however, the other could return nothing of the sort.

Focus angled stiffly at the edge of the coffee table which divided them, Arthur put the full force of his will behind quashing the sting that began to rise up his throat. It reached his eyes, clawing at his tear ducts so that he had to blink it back into his skull where it lingered. He rolled his lips together and bit at the inside of his mouth until the tingling faded enough for him to speak again.

"What's the matter, Arthur?" Tino addressed him softly before he got the chance to.

"I just…" his voice crackled slightly, "I don't like thinking about her that way."

Pale eyes pleading out to him from within his head, Arthur knew not how to help them.

"In what way?" the other's eyes were narrowed at him in thought as he put across the question, giving the impression that he was working towards something specific.

"Like she was miserable." Arthur's forehead creased, deep caverns scoring his skin of which traces remained even when the proceeding emotion filled them in. "I just don't know why she wasn't happy with herself when she did everything for everyone and people loved her for that. What more could she have done?"

Tino made no response at first, looking at his client. "Arthur," he directed his tone pointedly at the other, "Do you realise what you have just said?"

Staring back blankly, Arthur was met only by that same expectant gaze as Tino sat back and watched him.

Beginning to frown as he failed to decipher the meaning of the cryptic question, the realisation was thrust onto him like the earth had been hauled from under his feet and dropped on top of him. Self-awareness paralysed him as he realised that his own actions paralleled those of the woman they spoke of, to a fault. The emotion behind the pearl-like eyes changed subtly to pity as he came to see their shared defects, then to hope as they begged for him not to let them become him.

An unconscious smile curled the edges of his lips, a reassurance to the phantom face that warned him of his fate should he refuse change, and though it was an image of his own making he was sure it smiled back without his input.

"I never thought we were really all that alike," Arthur murmured after a few beats silence.

"It's difficult for a person to see things in themselves that way," Tino judged, something akin to pride in his tone.

Though he smiled still, the idea of it disturbed Arthur. It all made so much sense, the way she inserted herself into other's problems to avoid her own or for some sense of control. He understood and didn't know how he could have missed it. Yet oddly the guilt he would have usually been overwhelmed by failed to show up at all, rather something else, something white hot and bright scorching his heart.

Anger. Anger directed towards not himself but his mother. At first he recoiled from the sensation, fearing the burn it produced, that it would blacken the space reserved in him for her. However, the warmth was intriguing and like a moth he was drawn to it, its glow lighting parts of himself he had never seen before. While intense, the feeling didn't last long and began to wane while Arthur looked in shock at the undiscovered crevices of his heart. He gazed in until the last spark had diminished along with the anger which had roused it and the depths of himself had fallen still and dark once more.

He had caught only a glimpse, but he knew what he saw there wasn't flattering. Yet this didn't bother him so much. No one could force themselves inside of him nor could they coerce it out of him, he could spend his time exploring these newfound mysteries by himself before exposing them to the world, if he chose to at all. He could indulge them, tame them and find them a place alongside the rest of his character as he knew to be the right thing to do. To deny things he knew to be true was deceiving, after all, not to others but to himself and he wouldn't starve himself of the truth ever again.

"I always thought I should try to be like her, but I never thought I was," he added more quietly, gaze drifting off to the side.

"She sounds like a wonderful person," Tino nodded, "Dedicating yourself to helping others that way is something not many people would be willing to do. But there comes a point where it is detrimental." Another of his meaningful looks was directed at his client as he got to his core message, "People shouldn't look after others while neglecting themselves."

They spoke a while longer, allowing for a lighter tone as they went on and wrapped up for the day.

"Made any resolutions?" the elder of the pair enquired as he walked Arthur to the door.

"Oh, I haven't made one in years," Arthur shook his head, chuckling lightly as he opened the door, "I can never keep them. Yourself?"

Tino leant against the doorframe, arms folded as he tipped his head at an angle. "Sort of," his tone became more conversational now that their professional time was up, "Berwald and I promised we would start having a date night once a week."

Arthur found the switch of mood and the fact that it seemed to be subconscious strange given they had just been speaking so intimately on such a heavy subject, though he supposed it was the same in any job really.

"That's a sweet idea," he complemented.

The other hummed a singular laugh. "It was his idea, not mine," he denied the praise, "I'm not saying that the romance dies, but after being together a while it's easy to forget to prioritise one another occasionally."

It seemed even when off duty he was partial to sharing his advice, though Arthur couldn't say it wasn't valuable. "How long have you been together, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Six years now," Tino smiled as he spoke, "Married for three of them."

Managing to keep the surprise from his face, Arthur reacted with an "oh" as he tried to recall ever seeing a wedding ring on the other's hand. Not that he thought he should be under any obligation to wear one, but it seemed to go against his nature not to, in a way.

Feeling the slight sense of superiority he always felt when people told him they had been in a relationship less time than Francis and himself, Arthur wished him well and stepped from the doorway as it was closed.

Heading over to the front desk, a remarkable lightness made his steps feel as though they barely weighed upon the ground. He leant his forearms on the countertop and smiled amicably while the receptionist apologised for being preoccupied with something before vanishing into a back room, leaving him to wait.

The foyer was as it ever was, plasticy leafed potted plants in the corner, magazines left on side tables, bubbles rising in the water cooler and hitting the surface with a deep bloop, but Arthur looked around it, nonetheless. He shuffled in place, not out of impatience but of wanting to be occupied with something sensory which he found in the form of a painting he had never noticed before. Certain it must have been placed there just recently, he observed it over his shoulder where it hung on the wall beside a door he had never seen opened.

Vibrant, sulphur yellow swept the small canvas in defined brush strokes, each bristle's trail trackable through the thick oil paint used. Petals swirled in a ring around the brown centre atop a thick, green stem which rose high against the cloudy background spotted with blue. Against the muted colours, the flowers appeared as though they were the sun, much as they did in real life, and the picture radiated a cheerful hue.

Folding his arms on the counter surface, Arthur rested his head on top of them, his eyes still pointed towards the interesting piece. It wasn't the style he would care to have in his own home but it certainly provoked positivity, the airy feel to the scene almost making a person forget that it was dark and cold outside. Then again, that may just have been a result of his already pleasant mood.

"I like that one too," came a voice from behind him, startling him to stand upright and whip his face around, "It is so sunny it makes me smile."

No less startling was the figure when in view, however, not for it being a stranger but for quite the opposite reason, though the unique intonation of the person's voice had been enough to tell Arthur that without looking.

"I did not know you came here, Arthur, what a long time it has been," the other continued, greeting Arthur as an old friend with the light-hearted expression which seemed never to change.

"It has," the shock began to wear off as Arthur took in the intimidating form before him, having to tilt his head back to meet the eyes the colour of dried lavender which towered over him, "I didn't expect to see you here either, Ivan."

A redundant statement as his reaction made this fact quite obvious, though he was stuck for any other conversation, having not seen the man since Alfred and Natalia's relationship had come to an end. That had been their only real link ever since they had left school, which was where they were first acquainted. An occasional meeting at the front door when Ivan, being the protective brother he was, had walked his younger sister to their house where they would exchange pleasantries and the two siblings would mutter between themselves in their native language before Natalia rolled her eyes and went inside with Alfred.

The fact that Ivan had quite clearly hated Alfred, and vice versa, had never caused Arthur to feel ill towards him. Mostly because of their knowing one another and having been somewhat friends at school, although 'knowing' may have been too strong of a term. He, along with the rest of the family, had always been mysterious, to put it subtly, as the three siblings had just turned up one day without explanation, with rumours trailing after them.

It was in his third year of secondary school, if Arthur recalled correctly, that Ivan had been placed in most of his classes. For the first few weeks he had kept to himself, most likely because others either mocked him or were afraid of him, but had taken a seat beside Arthur one day during a literature class. He must have spied Arthur as a good target as he usually sat alone, being an outcast himself, and decided to take his chances. Being a decent person, Arthur had no qualms with this and allowed it, though they spoke very little, and from then on, he found Ivan attached himself to him where he could.

Yet despite this, he learned practically nothing about the strange boy. He was shy and, contradictory to his appearance, gentle and tended to do no more than exist close to Arthur, which suited him just fine. It wasn't until Arthur met the eldest of the three siblings that the hearsay was put straight for him as she mentioned the whole situation in passing one day while she dropped off her sister. The facts where, predictably, far less interesting than the speculation that surrounded them as they had been sent from their home country by their parents to find a better life that side of Europe. This had left Katya to play matriarch and while she smiled Arthur could see the anxiety behind her eyes, and whatsmore could relate to it.

"My sister brings me," Ivan's bright expression held and gave his words an air of ignorance, as though he didn't quite understand what was going on around him. There had always been a hint of something off about him, though, and if Arthur was being honest, he wasn't at all surprised to see him in a therapist's office and nor was he judging him for it. Not at all.

"That's good of her," he replied, offering a slight smile but seeing that the other's attention was too wrapped up in the painting for him to notice it.

A curious fellow, he thought to himself as the receptionist returned to help him. He made himself an appointment and wished Ivan well, though he made no reply, before heading out into the street where he recognised Katya's car parked a little way down the road with the headlights still on. For a moment he contemplated going over to her but thought better of it, the darkened clouds forewarning him.

Tugging down the sleeves of his jumper to cover his hands, he set off through the interspersed light of the streetlamps, his back to the headlights of the stationary vehicle which caused his shadow to stretch long before him. He wandered his way along, in no particular hurry, and found the streets not as vacant as usual. There were a fair few pubs in the surrounding area so on such an occasion as it was that night, it wasn't strange to find people, in groups or couples or alone, in various states of intoxication roaming the night.

In his lifted spirits, he envied them slightly for the good time they were having, wishing he had anyone to join in with. There was always the option of going home and getting pissed there but, not being seventeen anymore, that would most likely turn out to be somewhat depressing. However, on the coat tails of that thought, he considered it wasn't too late for an impromptu night out. Francis was into all that spontaneous malarkey and it was hardly past six, surely, they could find two seats at the back of a bar somewhere to count down the remaining hours of the year together.

Taken with idea, he paused where he stood and pulled out his phone, already knowing his other half would be on board. The split screen glowed, showing him yet another missed call from the number that had been badgering him all day. He swiped past it with a roll of his eyes and looked for his partner's contact, beginning to stroll again as he did and wondering what in the world could be so important it warranted such repeated calling.

Considering what indeed, a sense of agitated anxiety made itself known. It was likely no more than Alistair wanting to pester him, possibly drunk, but an unavoidable guilt nagged at his insides, nonetheless. An uncomfortable, unignorable twisting sensation that grew the longer he neglected to call the number hovered over him. Though their relationship may have been complicated, Arthur always felt a kind of responsibility for the older man when he was close by, like it was his job to protect the community from the unruly outsider.

Attempting to avoid the inevitable, he sighed and stopped in place. The more rational part of himself telling him not to, that Alistair was a grown man that should deal with his own problems and that he shouldn't put himself out trying to help, his better self told him he knew what the right thing was. Then again, the question of right or charitable came to mind, as was this not exactly the sort of thing he had just spoken about? Had he not, less than ten minutes ago, condemned this sort of behaviour as being self-destructive?

The thought of that almost persuaded him to listen to logic. Almost, but not quite, as he found the phone pressed to his ear, the other end ringing. Old habits died hard, he sighed as the line was picked up.

"Yeah?" came his gruff greeting, no hint of recognition in the voice.

"It's Arthur," said man elaborated, thinking this would stir some kind of a reaction from the other.

"Alright," was all that came back, though.

Not sure why he had expected better, Arthur took a breath and reminded him, "You've been calling me all day."

"And you're only replying now," Alistair slurred his indignant retort.

Regretting his decision already, Arthur was curt with him. "Be glad I replied at all, what did you want?"

Something incoherent came down the line, followed by a groan and some muffled cursing.

"What?" Arthur's face wrinkled as he tried to decipher the sounds.

"I don't fucking know," the other moaned. "Do me a favour, would you?"

Placing a hand on his hip, Arthur raised both brows.

"Probably not, what is it?" he asked.

"I think I'm lost."

Arthur grew more irate as Alistair's words became less understandable.

"Okay?" each sentence brought him closer to snapping.

"How do I get back to my hotel?"

Idiocy was something that Arthur had very little patience for but the idiocy that came of drunkenness was something he simply couldn't abide.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" he shouted, "Where even are you?"

A pause ensued, in which Arthur seethed quietly.

"Do you know what lost means?"

The sarcastic retort near sent him over the edge and probably would have had he not been in a markedly good mood beforehand, but by the width of a hair he was short.

Figuring he was already out and already angry and that the night had little chance of being mended, he relented. Teeth clenched and eyelids closed, he uttered, "Tell me what you can see, and I'll come and find you."

"Fucking, uh, trees, bench, um, some fountain thing."

As Arthur had hoped, he wasn't far off if he recalled the location correctly.

"Stay where you are, I'll be a couple of minutes."

Abruptly hanging up, he headed down a side road, frustration and the motivation for the task to be over and done with quickening his pace. The air held a heavy, cottony feel to it as the coming storm drew nearer, the darkness which had settled concealing whether the clouds were black with rain or had been infected by the night. Though his breath was visible before him, the cloying atmosphere kept out the cold and warmth rose in his cheeks.

Rounding a final corner after about ten minutes of walking, Arthur entered onto the street he believed Alistair had been describing and was relieved to see a body sat slumped forward on a bench. The yellow spotlight of a streetlamp which shone directly down onto it cast it half in shadow, but it was hard to mistake the brush of burning hair for anyone else. He was still, elbows on his knees with head hung over them, a thin trail of smoke rising from it and a bottle clasped in one hand, several more collected around his feet.

Arthur intruded upon the lonely scene, steps brisk and echoing crisply in the quiet that surrounded them.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he made no attempt to hide his disdain as he stopped short of the bench, directly in front of his estranged family member.

Whether the other hadn't heard him approach or had ignored him, Arthur couldn't tell, but he now raised his head, like a cow from its grazing, and muttered past the cigarette stub held between his lips, "What the fuck does it look like?"

Arms folded; Arthur looked at him down the length of his nose.

"I don't think you want me to answer that," was his scathing remark.

A husky laugh emitted the other, his hunched body caving in on itself.

"Oh, don't be so superior," he snorted, "Sit down, have a drink, you're killing the mood."

"I don't want to sit in the street drinking rancid beer with you, get up so I can take you back to wherever you're staying," Arthur had no tolerance for him and even less compassion.

"And where have you got to be in such a hurry," Alistair drawled, "I'm only trying to offer you some fun."

"Well, I actually have plans with Francis," Arthur half lied him quite peevishly.

"Ah, wouldn't want to be in trouble with the Mrs, would we?" the older man snickered at the unimpressed look he was thrown, taking a swig from his half empty bottle before stating with some certainty, bushy eyebrows held aloft, "You know, you got the right idea though." Receiving a quizzical expression, he elaborated, "Women are impossible, go for what you know."

Lip curling, a sound of revulsion reflexively expelled itself from Arthur's throat. "Don't project yourself onto me just because you can't keep a girlfriend," he sneered with the intention of hurting him.

He seemed to have achieved his aim, as Alistair took the cigarette from his mouth and shook his head as he flung it with some force towards the broken fountain a few meters away.

"She was a bitch anyway," he growled, a shadow passing over his face.

Thinking this was a sign that they could leave, Arthur was disappointed when he took another cigarette from his pocket and patted himself down in search of his lighter.

"You got a light?" he requested when he failed to find his own.

"I don't smoke now," Arthur told him bluntly.

Frowning in confusion as though this were impossible, Alistair checked himself once more and came up with the illusive lighter. He cupped a hand around the end of his cigarette, shielding the flame although there was no wind at all, and breathed in the smoke like it was more natural than oxygen to him.

Arthur stood looking down at him, arms crossed, all the while, but found that his sternest look was having no affect and so gave it up. Sighing in exasperation, he let his arms drop and took a seat on the bench beside the other. They remained in silence a few moments, one too drunk and the other too irritated for conversation.

"How long did he get, then?" Arthur broke the false tranquillity, deducing from the state of the other that their cause of relation must have been found guilty.

Alistair glanced over without moving his head, allowing his eyes to settle on the contemptable expression the other held briefly then directing his gaze back out to the darkened street.

"Nothing," he said, white tusks of smoke rolling from his nose, "he was acquitted."

Taken aback by this, the younger man expressed his confusion with an accusatory, "Are you not pleased by that?"

"Course I'm not fucking pleased," the other lashed at him with words, eyes narrowed, "I was hoping he'd get a few years. Thought that might finally keep him out of trouble." Drawing the cigarette from his mouth to take a drink, he added, mumbling down the neck of the bottle, "Or away from me, at least."

Arthur couldn't argue with his reasoning, despite it being rather heartless. Prison did seem the best place for someone like that, for his own sake and everyone's around him.

"He's a grown man, he's not your problem," he contended still.

"Aye, easy for you to say," Alistair scoffed, "but I'm the only thing keeping him from dying in a ditch somewhere."

Refraining from remarking that that may not be the worst thing, Arthur was, again, faced with the fact that he had no right to argue with this. After all, when compared with what little he knew of their shared parent, Alistair came out the better of two evils and having been half raised by that man he hadn't been gifted much of a chance in life. The slightest hint of pity even forced its way into his chest when he considered just how much a product of the environment he was.

He hadn't had the upbringing that Arthur had the privilege of experiencing. While Arthur didn't know all that much about how he had been brought up, he knew he had no cause to envy him. No wonder Alistair had been so eager to crash into his life all those years ago, a place where he was cared for, even if it was by complete strangers. A deeper tug wrenched at his chest when he thought of the fact that Alistair favoured strangers to his own family and he cursed his sense of empathy.

"But still, it's not your responsibility. It's not your fault he's the way he is," he attempted to offer.

He turned his face to look at the man beside him who grunted and shifted, leaning back on the bench and staring ahead with glazed eyes.

"What does that matter?" Alistair downed the rest of his drink and dropped the bottle limply. It clattered on the concrete with a hollow sound but didn't shatter.

"I'm just saying. None of it's your fault, so you don't have to fix it," Arthur continued to watch him as he turned his gaze for their eyes to meet. Those eyes which could have been dark as pine needles under the black cloak of night and surveyed everything they saw with such cynicism. He knew those eyes well. Had seen them look back at him from a face he was just as intimately acquainted with, found them stalking him from his reflection. He had seen them before at their lowest, just as they were now.

"You want to talk about whose fault it is? You always seemed happy to blame me before, what changed? Whose fault is it now?" the volume of his voice rose and reverberated around them against the stone walls of the suburb.

"I've never blamed you for something he did," Arthur was quick to shoot back.

"No, you just blame me for existing," something like a half smile, half snarl twisted his lips as Alistair bared his teeth, resentment bubbling low in his throat.

The sheer venom of his words caused Arthur to recoil a little in his seat, though he wouldn't allow weakness to show on his face.

"I do not blame you for existing, that's ridiculous, I just…" he claimed, but found whatever he had been planning to say crumbled away.

When he thought about what the other had said, as he did in the moment, he could come up with no real reason as to why he mistreated him so. He may not have been the sort of person that Arthur would choose to be friends with, but the deep loathing he felt towards him was much more than a passing dislike. It was the sort of animosity which should have been reserved for an enemy, someone that had personally wronged him in some way but, as far as he could recall, Alistair had never done anything of that description. Besides existing.

Unable to maintain eye contact at the realisation, a soft sigh broke from him. He had been cruel, and he accepted that. Alistair may have been the furthest thing from perfect he could envision, and for a lot of thigs he had no excuse for, but he didn't deserve unrequited hatred. Why he felt that way Arthur had considered several times before in an attempt to justify himself but had never found one definitive answer. Perhaps he was projecting some unrealised resentment towards a father he had never known onto him, perhaps he was doing so on his mother's behalf, or maybe he was just overly protective of allowing an outsider into the family. In any case, it wasn't warranted.

Glancing to the side then quickly back at the ground, he was at a loss of what to say. Sorry hardly felt appropriate and he doubted whether he'd even get a reply. By the look in the other's blank eyes, he appeared not to be taking much in and may not even remember it come the morning. However, Arthur couldn't just say nothing.

"Don't sit there looking so guilty," Alistair beat him to it, "What have you got to feel bad about?"

His eyes darting over but daring not to linger, Arthur straightened out his features.

"I haven't been very fair to you," he could feel the other watching him as he spoke, his gaze prodding at his conscience.

"Fair…" Alistair contemplated the word as it left his lips, one brow twitching and a breath passing through him, reflection evident on his face, "I don't know…maybe you have been."

Though he witnessed it from the corner of his vision, Arthur saw the picture clearly. One of a man, warped by life experiences he had been unable to manage, experiences he had had a hand in forming. An imperfect man, just as all men are.

"Look," Arthur began reluctantly but decisively, "we're hardly family in any sense of the word, but we are related," he softened his features as best he could though his words were a strain, "and that means something to me. So, I'd like to try to be nicer to you."

Whether this was necessarily the truth was irrelevant as the sentiment was what he meant to get across. Arthur truly had no idea why the man still reached out to him, not after his mother had died. Perhaps for Alfred and Matthew, though had he wanted to know them better he would have reached out to them and not himself. He refused to entertain the conceited idea that he was jealous as there was really no part of his life that was particularly desirable. But whatever the reason may have been, Arthur felt the need to make an effort, if only to make up for his misdeeds in the past.

Alistair eyed him, part suspicious, part surprised, before casting his conflicted gaze to the cigarette he took from his mouth.

"If you say so," he expelled in a cloud of smoke.

Not a promising answer but a certain sense of gratitude came through in his words and Arthur supposed it was enough. Peace settled over them, two figures sharing the unusually warm night, as voices came distorted from a distance. Arthur checked the time and thought it, with some disappointment, too late to start making plans with his other half but still early enough to have a decent night in.

"Where is it you're staying then?" he made a move to get up, intending to send Alistair off in a cab then make his way home.

Fixated on the smouldering glow of his cigarette, the other didn't appear to be listening and so Arthur repeated himself, garnering a grunt.

"Ah? I don't know, some hotel," was his vague response.

Having exhausted his supply of sighs for the day, Arthur simply asked for clarification.

"You know, the one on the street, with the thing on the roof," the older man waved his hand about as though attempting to conjure the image from the air, "and the statue, that-"

He stopped abruptly, pausing a beat then leaning forward to vomit onto the pavement between his legs.

Deadpanned to the scene before him, Arthur pulled out his phone and raised it to his ear.

"Put some sheets on the sofa, I'll explain when I get home," was all he said to Francis when his voice rang from the other end before hanging up and seeing to the mess beside him.

He stood and offered a hand which Alistair missed several times before getting a firm hold of. Almost stumbling forward as the much larger man used it to pull himself up, Arthur felt the roughness of his hands, like well-worn leather and icy cold too. He wondered how long he had been sat there, waiting for him or anyone to come along and save him. He supposed that was probably how he had lived most of his life; sitting alone waiting to be rescued.

"You got yourself a good one there," Alistair commended him, presumably on his choice of partner, stood swaying in place, "You get him a ring before he finds someone else who will."

"Maybe," Arthur humoured his advice, faltering though it was, and ushered him along.

They made it home with only a few minor mishaps and one stop for vomit, but Arthur found himself truly exhausted by the time they were at his front door. Francis was there to let them in, which he did with concern and a torrent of questions.

"Just give me a minute," Arthur struggled as he heaved a barely conscious Alistair onto the made-up sofa.

Moving the canvas which remained propped against the wall in the living room, just in case, as he made his way across the hall Arthur explained the night to his other half whose expression morphed from shock into empathy over the telling of the story.

"The poor man," he tutted, looking through over the hall to the body which lay motionless on their couch.

Arthur hummed his assent; the journey home having drained him near completely.

"Sorry the night's turned out like this," he apologised but was predictably waved off.

"It is no one's fault," Francis assured him, "and look."

He turned to the counter and proudly produced a bottle of champagne which Arthur didn't remember having.

"I bought it while you were out," Francis told him in answer to the question he hadn't asked aloud, "I thought we might still have fun by ourselves."

Arthur looked at him as he stood smiling with sweet anticipation, the brightness in his eyes, the levity in his voice amplified by the quiet dark of the house. And that was what he was to Arthur, the brightness in his otherwise grey world, the glimmering hope he reached towards at all times that seemed never to lessen or retract. Always there and always better than he deserved.

Watching as he turned to get them some wine glasses, Arthur could think of no way to express his appreciation other than wrapping both arms around him from behind and holding fast.

Francis glanced down at the arms which wound around his chest then over his shoulder at the head which was pressed into his back.

"Quelle?" he asked softly.

His voice vibrated through his whole body like a cat's purr and Arthur remained pressed against the woolly texture of the other's jumper.

"Thank you for being good to me," he murmured in earnest.

He felt a chuckle rumbled inside of the other who then turned around still in his grasp and placed a kiss just above his forehead.

"You are most welcome," he replied, "Come, we should drink it while it is still cold."

Whether he had felt the full weight of the words or not Arthur was unsure, but he could relax in knowing he had said them and meant them and would for as long as he could see before him. He followed on after his lover, both of them creeping through the hall and up the stairs like rabbits past the fox's den, though the fox had been thoroughly tranquilized.

Upstairs he found Queenie peering around the bedroom door, clearly having sensed Alistair's presence, most likely from the pungent smell. She looked to him for reassurance and was happily held by him as Arthur carried her into the room and manoeuvred into bed with her in his arms.

Francis slipped in from his side and let the glasses clink together on the bed where they lay, reaching down to bring up his laptop. Taking the liberty of popping the cork, though as quietly as could be done, and pouring them both out a glass while Arthur found them a live broadcast of the festivities and Queenie found a spot between their legs, they both found themselves happy enough with how their lonesome party had shaped up. Therefore, they remained that way until the champagne and the year came to an end.

The next rolled in sooner than Arthur would have liked, however, as he was startled awake by a sudden jolting sound. Eyelids snapping back to expose him to the still rising sun which appeared to be struggling upwards against the heavy torrent which pelted down against it, Arthur remained perfectly still and listened. No other disturbance broke the morning, though, and he laid there a while wondering what it could have been.

The alertness which comes from a sudden start to the day began to wear off quickly and he rolled over with the aim of going back to sleep when a hearty coughing erupted, disturbing him again. He propped himself up on one elbow and homed in on the sound which dissipated, leaving only the smacking of rain against the window. Alice had always said that it was good luck for it to rain on New Year's Day, that it washed the last year away so that the next one could start truly fresh, and Arthur had to admit there was something promising in the air.

Inhaling the cool, sweet scent, Arthur slid from the covers into the frigid open and leant his forearms against the windowsill to look out on the world. Deep puddles lined the roadside, telling him that the weather had been steady for some time, and the pavements were bare, and though not a thing had changed the streets appeared new to him. He liked to think that his were the first eyes to be laid upon them, that the weight of no other's perception had dented their unused surface, and he looked on them favourably indeed.

Thinking of his houseguest downstairs, he wondered whether his various noises meant that he was awake and considered he had better check, in case he was in need of anything. Despite his not being the ideal lodger, it was still a host's duty to try and make a person's stay comfortable, after all. Whatsmore, Arthur hadn't forgotten the loose promise he had made the night before, even though Alistair probably didn't remember a damn thing, and wanted to at least attempt to make good on it.

Down the stairs without a sound, he reached the hallway to find his caution unnecessary as the hulking frame which he had last seen passed out on the sofa was now leant against the window in the living room, one hand holding a cigarette outside of it. Figuring the opened pane must have been the sound which had roused him, Arthur stood in the doorway and made his presence known.

"Morning," he greeted.

Apparently having been unaware of him before, Alistair raised his head and glanced back at the other. His tangled curls fell over his drooping face with the wildness of a bramble bush, his murky eyes looking through the mass like an exhausted predator would from it's hiding place. Just from the dejected sight of him Arthur could tell he must have felt like hell, but his voice made it all the more evident.

"Morning," he rasped.

"Can I get you anything?" Arthur offered.

"No, that's alright," Alistair declined, his cracked lips hardly moving, "I was going to be off before you went to work."

"Actually, I quit my job," Arthur felt the need to inform him, hugging his arms against himself.

Brows drawing together for a moment then rising a little, the other hummed and craned his head out of the window to take a puff. The smell still slithered its way into the house, but Arthur appreciated that he did it outside, nonetheless.

"When are you heading back to Edinburgh?" he ventured to stave off the awkwardness that waited for an opening.

A frown scored the other's freckled forehead. "Why would I be going back to Edinburgh?"

Head tilted to the side perplexedly, Arthur propped his shoulder against the door frame. "I thought that's where you were living," he said.

"Aberdeen," the other corrected him.

"Oh," he breathed, still looking at the back of his head, "When are you going back then?"

"I'm not, I live in Manchester now."

With no response to this, Arthur fell quiet and diverted his eyes to the carpet. The patter of rain outside grew more vicious and Alistair didn't flinch when they splashed from the glass onto his cheek, letting them sit there like borrowed tears. His still wore the heavy jacket which he had fallen asleep in, the kind worn by someone who works under the elements and it was stained and creased, like the rest of the clothes he wore. Though he was a large man, the fabric swamped him, seeming to weigh him down as he leant heavily against the window.

As Arthur found himself staring in a state of pitying fascination, like this was the first time he had seen the man, a body brushed against his ankle. Queenie had followed him down, gaining courage in his company to come and inspect the stranger in the house much as her master was. Rubbing herself against his shin, she slunk further into the room, skirting around the edge of the coffee table for cover, until she was close enough to stretch her neck out and sniff at the muddied cuff of the larger man's jeans.

As stealthy as she was, she found herself caught in the act as Alistair glanced down, locking eyes with her. A clouded breath left his nose and one corner of his lip twitched upward as he flicked the butt of his cigarette away and bent down to scratch her ginger head. She flinched at first but relaxed immediately when his coarse fingers treated her with remarkable gentleness.

Arthur found there to be something very honest in the way a person treated animals, like their true nature came to the surface. The cruellest of people could prove themselves to be good at heart or the most charitable person could be proven a fake.

He looked on them a moment before asking, "Do you want to borrow a shirt or anything?"

Looking up while the cat purred around his feet, Alistair shook his head. "That's alright, I think I'll be off."

"Where are you going to go?" Arthur enquired, biting at his forefinger.

"Home," Alistair unloaded the word like it were a block of lead then stood with visible effort. As he drew his hand from the cat's head and shoved it into his pocket, Arthur saw the purple reddish bruise decorating his knuckles. "With any luck I can be back by tonight."

Outside the sky growled, low yet thunderous, as though God were scoffing at his plans. Unperturbed, however, Alistair swayed into the hall and made for the door.

"You don't want to wait until it lets up a little?" Arthur trailed after him, his expression discouraging but the older of the two already had his hand on the door handle.

"I'm used to it," he chuckled lightly as he looked back, "Thanks for letting me stay. You didn't have to do that."

Something in his demeanour lightened as he spoke, and Arthur offered a faint smile in return. "I wasn't going to let sleep on the streets."

Alistair's mouth contorted into a similar expression which looked foreign on him. Unstably it rested on his face, like he was testing it out and didn't quite know how it fit. Nodding, he opened the door and flipped up his collar in preparation but looked back as Arthur spoke to him.

"Call me some time," the younger man looked him in the eye as both lingered on the threshold of a relationship neither realised was mutually beneficial, "If you need anything or whatever."

"Aye," Alistair nodded again, that experimental smile tugging wider, "I will."

With a goodbye of sorts expressed between them, both fell silent and Arthur watched as his slightly less estranged relative slipped out into the rain. He was soaked through in seconds, coils of hair flattened by the weight of the water but walked on as though he hadn't noticed at all, another rumble of thunder sounding from some distance away at which point Arthur closed the door.

"He has left?" Francis' voice came from the top of the stairs and Arthur turned to see him emerging drowsily from the bedroom.

"I just saw him out," he replied.

"Is he alright? He will be drowned," the other exaggerated.

"He'll be alright," Arthur told him like he was the authority on such things, taking out his phone to put a name to the unknown number.

Francis, not quite awake yet, bobbed his head slowly and uttered something as he drifted over the landing and into the bathroom to get ready for work.

Day had broken outside though it didn't look it by the shade of grey, closer to black, which painted the sky. A thick, impermeable feel sealed Arthur inside where the air was still thin and dry enough to breath easily and he could watch the heavens cascade in peace from the sofa. Sat alone, he could hear the pounding on the roof through two floors and when he showered, he closed his eyes and pretended he was in a dreamland where storms came hot.

He remembered similar days and all the ones that came to mind were Sundays when his mother would drag him out of bed at seven in the morning, force him into a suit that didn't fit and march him to church, sulking all the way, where she would parade him for the amusement of the elderly. Laughing at the thought, he turned on the radio as he would have done after they got home from the service and reclined on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't tell whether the thunder was coming or going but this time it came accompanied by a flash that startled Queenie into an arch backed fuzzball.

Snickering to himself, he stroked down her fur and did his best to calm her while thinking of how to pass the time. Francis had been unable to avoid a day at the office but he didn't mind the solitude. It made him more productive, in fact, as he found it a challenge to see how much he could get done before his other half got home. What he was to do, though, was the problem. It didn't take him long strip the sheets from the sofa and put them in the washing machine and there were only one or two chores to do about the house, which left him bored before midday.

Slumping back down onto the sofa, his unoccupied limbs splayed to the sides of him, he looked about himself listlessly much as he did on those hazy Sundays. The room was dark, and he knew he could easily fall into a bad state of mind if he let himself be taken over by it, and so his search for inspiration grew more desperate. He rolled his head to the side and looked at the wall to his left, the one scored by three strips of blue like some bizarre flag.

He still didn't find any of the three particularly appealing but with that an idea came to him. An impulsive one which he questioned several times before convincing himself it would turn out fine and springing up from his seat. Grabbing all three paint cans from where they sat on the kitchen counter, he rummaged through the cupboards for a bowl and took some old newspapers out of the bin before taking his supplies into the living room.

First, he needed to drag the furniture away from the walls, which he managed after some struggling which he was quite glad that no one was there to witness. Next he ripped the papers into sheets to line around the walls in order to save as much of the carpet as he could, though he grew impatient with this quickly and did a poor job of it. He was pleased to find a paint roller he didn't know they owned in the cupboard under the stairs and a tray to go with it, both things which would make the task go easier, and with that he got to the experimental faze.

Popping off the lids of all three shades, the chemical scent instantly overpowered that of stale smoke and the colours seemed to leap from their tins. But Arthur endeavoured to contain them and bend them to his will as he poured each of the blues into the large bowl, revelling in how the liquid flowed and globbed. Half of the can of duck egg blue, one long pour of the the palest summer sky and a dollop of vibrant cyan. A vigorous mix and he was left with perfection. A blue purer, livelier and more exquisite than any other.

Anticipation rising as he coated his roller in his creation and brought it to the wall where he was to make the first stroke, Arthur tingled all over. Enjoyment in something so simple was the best kind and he relished in the way the bright new colour smothered the ghastly beige underneath. It went on smooth and dense, completely erasing any trace of dullness, and Arthur exerted himself to reach as high as he could then bent down to the skirting board so that one full strip of wall was obliterated by blue.

He stood back to admire it a moment and found himself excessively pleased with the result. The smell was becoming more suffocating and so he went and opened every window he could find and turned up the radio on his way back so as it wasn't drowned out by the gale outside. He recognised the song that played, something upbeat in tempo despite the minor key and cynical lyrics, and his own voice soon harmonised with it. Not knowing all the words, he was content to hum and sing back up as he made his way around the room, leaving a bold trail in his wake.

Time moved quickly but he would stop for no one but the man he hoped to pleasantly surprise when he got home that evening. Paint spattered over the carpet and furniture with the energy of his movements and the more he tried to wipe the stains from his face the more he smeared over it like war paint. He didn't care, though, he wanted the entire room to be soaked in the colour, wanted people passing by to look in and think a dazzling waterfall flowed from his walls. As the sky darkened the room glowed brighter and he was spurred on with even greater enthusiasm.

He teetered on the edge of the coffee table and stretched his body to its fullest height so that no corner went neglected, ran a thin brush around the edge of the window with the steadiest hand he could muster, wiped his mistakes with the hem of his t-shirt. Sweating and panting despite the open windows letting out all the heat in the house, he wouldn't tire and had it half in his mind that he might start on the hallway next.

He was prevented, however, when the front door opened with a blustery rush and his other half hurried inside.

"Wait, stay where you are," he called out, throwing down his roller in the tray and wiping his face with the collar of his top.

"Alright," the other responded slowly, stopping where he stood dripping on the threshold.

Emerging out in the hall with a grin splitting his face, Arthur met his curious gaze. "I have a surprise for you," he announced, though the surprise was given away by the distinct aroma that saturated the air.

Eyebrows raised at his lover's disordered appearance; Francis laughed amusedly. "You have been busy today, it seems," he observed much like an adult to a child.

In his juvenile delight, the other smiled wider and took his partner's hand to show him his masterpiece. Walking a few steps in, the elder of the two looked around himself in surprised admiration.

"Mon cher, you could not have minded the carpet a little more?" he joked on seeing the carpet caked in dried specks.

"We'll replace it, we needed to anyway," Arthur waved a flippant hand from the doorway, "You do like it though, don't you?"

Looking around himself a few seconds more, Francis turned to face his significant other. His features settled into something warm and placidly content as he beheld the satisfaction in the other's eyes.

"It is perfection," he lilted, his heart singing at the pleasure it brought his love.

"Well, not quite yet," Arthur deterred, "There are some patches that could do with another coat. You feel like helping?"

Eager to please, Francis nodded and went upstairs to change into something he didn't mind ruining, leaving Arthur to pick up again. Perhaps the paint fumes had started to get to him, but he was positively giddy with joy. Singing carelessly to the song which played, he noticed neither the clap of thunder directly above nor the fact the he was being watched.

Listening with elation to his private concert, Francis was loath to interrupt his honeyed tones but felt the need to speak his thoughts.

"I have missed hearing you sing," he lamented to him softly.

"I still sing," the other glanced back and saw his blond head shaking.

"Not for a long time, mon lapin," Francis insisted, "Not for a long time."

In no mood to contend, Arthur noted the sadness tinging his voice and knew how to dispel it. Humming to the tune, he welcomed him closer with a look and pressed their lips together. Tender arms encircled him, and he returned the action, bodies pressing closer, skin growing warmer.

Forgetting completely about the wet paint on his hands, caught in the moment, Arthur cupped them to the other's neck. He felt the action paralleled by the hand that gripped his ass as the pair eased down onto the sofa together.

Astride his partner's lap, Arthur took full advantage of the position, pressing them closer together, flesh and soul. A shuddered breath blew between his lips when Francis slipped a hand under his waistband and nibbled along his jawline and he twisted his neck, exposing more skin for him to savour.

"Shit, I'm getting paint all over the sofa," he swore distractedly as he saw he'd left a blue hand print on the cushions.

"We will get another," Francis disregarded, commanding his attention with a kiss and a movement that elicited a soft, needing groan.

New bed sheets were soon added to the growing list of necessary items.

* * *

It's been a long month so don't be mad about the late upload.

So, not that I think my audience is stupid or anything but I'm worried that I didn't make things clear enough. The whole point of Alistair in this is that he is meant to be sort of a representation of all of Arthur's worst/depressive qualities (like low self image, addictive tendencies, inability to communicate) and in this chapter Arthur finally manages to accept him. Hope that came across in some way.

Just one more thing, I'm going to be off for a little while so follow to be updated on when I'm back.

Favourite, follow and review, I love knowing what people think of my work.


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